Ivy for my fillet band; Too long shut in strait and few, I will use the world, and sift it, O doleful ghosts, and goblins merry! Reputed wrongs and braggart rights, Smug routine, and things allowed, Minorities, things under cloud! Hither! take me, use me, fill me, Vein and artery, though ye kill me! God! I will not be an owl, But sun me in the Capitol. TO J. W. SET not thy foot on graves: Hear what wine and roses say The mountain chase, the summer waves, The crowded town, thy feet may well delay. Set not thy foot on graves; Nor seek to unwind the shroud Which charitable Time And Nature have allowed To wrap the errors of a sage sublime. Set not thy foot on graves: Care not to strip the dead Of his sad ornament, His myrrh, and wine, and rings, His sheet of lead, And trophies buried: Go, get them where he earned them when alive; As resolutely dig or dive. Life is too short to waste In critic peep or cynic bark, "Twill soon be dark; Up, heed thine own aim, and God speed the mark! FATE. THAT you are fair or wise is vain, You must have also the untaught strain There is a melody born of melody, Which melts the world into a sea: Toil could never compass it; Art its height could never hit; It came never out of wit; But a music music-born Well may Jove and Juno scorn. Thy beauty, if it lack the fire Which drives me mad with sweet desire, What boots it? what the soldier's mail, Unless he conquer and prevail? What all the goods thy pride which lift, If thou pine for another's gift? Alas! that one is born in blight, When thou lookest on his face, Thy heart saith, Brother, go thy ways! None shall ask thee what thou doest, Or care a rush for what thou knowest, Or listen when thou repliest, Or remember where thou liest, Or how thy supper is sodden;' And another is born To make the sun forgotten. Surely he carries a talisman Under his tongue; Broad are his shoulders and strong; And his eye is scornful, Threatening, and young. I hold it of little matter Whether your jewel be of pure water, But whether it dazzle me with light. |