Poems About Time

For had she not been fair, and thus unkind, My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind.

My spotless love hovers with purest wings,About the temple of the proudest frame,Where blaze those lights, fairest of earthly things,Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.My ambitious thoughts, confinèd in her face,Affect no honour but what she can give;My hopes do rest in limits of her grace;I weigh no comfort unless she relieve.For she, that can my heart imparadise,Holds in her fairest hand what dearest is;My Fortune’s wheel’s the circle of her eyes,Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss. All my life’s sweet consists in her alone; So much I love the most Unloving one.

And yet I cannot reprehend the flightOr blame th’ attempt presuming so to soar;The mounting venture for a high delightDid make the honour of the fall the more.For who gets wealth, that puts not from the shore?Danger hath honour, great designs their fame;Glory doth follow, courage goes before;And though th’ event oft answers not the same--Suffice that high attempts have never shame.The mean observer, whom base safety keeps,Lives without honour, dies without a name,And in eternal darkness ever sleeps.-- And therefore, Delia, ’tis to me no blot To have attempted, tho’ attain’d thee not.

When men shall find thy flow’r, thy glory, pass,And thou with careful brow, sitting alone,Receivèd hast this message from thy glass,That tells the truth and says that All is gone;Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou mad’st,Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:I that have loved thee thus before thou fad’st--My faith shall wax, when thou art in thy waning.The world shall find this miracle in me,That fire can burn when all the matter’s spent:Then what my faith hath been thyself shalt see,And that thou wast unkind thou may’st repent.-- Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears, When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.

Beauty, sweet Love, is like the morning dew,Whose short refresh upon the tender greenCheers for a time, but till the sun doth show,And straight ’tis gone as it had never been.Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish,Short is the glory of the blushing rose;The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose.When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth;And that, in Beauty’s Lease expired, appearsThe Date of Age, the Calends of our Death-- But ah, no more!--this must not be foretold, For women grieve to think they must be old.

I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would readLines of delight, whereon her youth might smile;Flowers have time before they come to seed,And she is young, and now must sport the while.And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither;And where the sweetest blossom first appears,Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise;Pity and smiles do best become the fair;Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise. Make me to say when all my griefs are gone, Happy the heart that sighed for such a one!

Let others sing of Knights and PaladinesIn agèd accents and untimely words,Paint shadows in imaginary lines,Which well the reach of their high wit records:But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come;When yet th’ unborn shall say, Lo, where she lies!Whose beauty made him speak, that else was dumb!These are the arcs, the trophies I erect,That fortify thy name against old age;And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst the Dark, and Time’s consuming rage. Though th’ error of my youth in them appear, Suffice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.

The flights of mews and peewits pied, By millions crouched on the old sea-wall.

I sat and spun within the doore; My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes:The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies;And dark against day's golden deathShe moved where Lindis wandereth,--My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews were falling,Farre away I heard her song."Cusha! Cusha!" all along;Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth,From the meads where melick groweth,Faintly came her milking-song.

"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,"For the dews will soone be falling;Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow!Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow!Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow;From the clovers lift your head!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Come uppe, Jetty! rise and follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed."

If it be long--ay, long ago-- When I beginne to think howe long,Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong;And all the aire, it seemeth mee,Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),That ring the tune of Enderby.Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene,Save where, full fyve good miles away, The steeple towered from out the greene.And lo! the great bell farre and wideWas heard in all the country sideThat Saturday at eventide.

The swannerds, where their sedges are, Moved on in sunset's golden breath;The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;Till, floating o'er the grassy sea,Came downe that kyndly message free,The Brides of Mavis Enderby.

Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flowsTo where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows.They sayde, "And why should this thing be,What danger lowers by land or sea?They ring the tune of Enderby.

"For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys, warping down,--For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne;But while the west bin red to see,And storms be none, and pyrates flee,Why ring The Brides of Enderby?"

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main;He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again:"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! The rising tide comes on apace;And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place!"He shook as one that looks on death:"God save you, mother!" straight he sayth;"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long;And ere yon tells beganne to play, Afar I heard her milking-song."He looked across the grassy sea,To right, to left, Ho, Enderby!They rang The Brides of Enderby.

With that he cried and beat his breast; For lo! along the river's bedA mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped.It swept with thunderous noises loud,--Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again.Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,--Then beaten foam flew round about,--Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beatBefore a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:The feet had hardly time to fleeBefore it brake against the knee,--And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night; The noise of bells went sweeping by;I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church-tower, red and high,--A lurid mark, and dread to see;And awsome bells they were to mee,That in the dark rang Enderby.

They rang the sailor lads to guide, From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;And I,--my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;And yet he moaned beneath his breath,"O, come in life, or come in death!O lost! my love, Elizabeth!"

And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare?The waters laid thee at his doore Ere yet the early dawn was clear:Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,The lifted sun shone on thy face,Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,--fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and mee;But each will mourne his own (she sayth)And sweeter woman ne'er drew breathThan my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her moreBy the reedy Lindis shore,"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,Ere the early dews be falling;I shall never hear her song,"Cusha! Cusha!" all along,Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth,From the meads where melick groweth,Where the water, winding down,Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more,Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver,Stand beside the sobbing river,--Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,To the sandy, lonesome shore;I shall never hear her calling,"Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow!Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!Come uppe, Whitefoot! come uppe, Lightfoot!Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow!Come uppe, Lightfoot! rise and follow; Lightfoot! Whitefoot!From your clovers lift the head;Come uppe, Jetty! follow, follow,Jetty, to the milking-shed!"

To hearts that cannot vary Absence is present, Time doth tarry.

My senses want their outward motion Which now within Reason doth win,Redoubled by her secret notion: Like rich men that take pleasure In hiding more than handling treasure.

By Absence this good means I gain, That I can catch her Where none can watch her,In some close corner of my brain: There I embrace and kiss her, And so enjoy her and none miss her.

Like him the spriteWhom maids by nightOft meet in glen that's haunted.Like him, too, Beauty won me;But when the spell was on me,If once their rayWas turned away,O! winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going?And is my proud heart growingToo cold or wiseFor brilliant eyesAgain to set it glowing?No - vain, alas! th' endeavorFrom bonds so sweet to sever; -Poor Wisdom's chanceAgainst a glanceIs now as weak as ever.

I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devour;Brightness falls from the air;Queens have died young and fair;Dust hath closed Helen’s eye;I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!

Strength stoops unto the grave,Worms feed on Hector brave;Swords may not fight with fate;Earth still holds ope her gate;Come, come! the bells do cry;I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!

Wit with his wantonnessTasteth death’s bitterness;Hell’s executionerHath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can reply;I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!

Haste therefore each degreeTo welcome destiny;Heaven is our heritage,Earth but a player’s stage.Mount we unto the sky;I am sick, I must die-- Lord, have mercy on us!

I cannot clear the five-bar gate;But, trying first its timber's state,Climb stiffly up, take breath, and waitTo trundle over.

Through gallopade I cannot swingThe entangling blooms of Beauty's spring:I cannot say the tender thing,Be't true or false,And am beginning to opineThose girls are only half-divineWhose waists yon wicked boys entwineIn giddy waltz.

I fear that arm above that shoulder;I wish them wiser, graver, older,Sedater, and no harm if colder,And panting less.Ah! people were not half so wildIn former days, when, starchly mild,Upon her high-heeled Essex smiledThe brave Queen Bess.

You Moon, have you done something wrong in heaven, That God has hidden your face?I hope if you have, you'll soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet Bee, you're a dusty fellow; You've powdered your legs with gold!O brave Marshmary buds, rich and yellow, Give me your money to hold!

O Columbine, open your folded wrapper Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!O Cuckoo-pint, toll me the purple clapper That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it, I will not steal them away;I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet, I am seven times one to-day.

Let the sweet waters flow. And cross quickly to me.

"You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;You glowworms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep,

"Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night."By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, And mine, they are yet to be;No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover: You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, Preparing her hoods of snow:She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: Oh, children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, Nor long summer bide so late;And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head:"The child is a woman, the book may close over, For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story--the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree;The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! Such as I wish it to be.

The earth's fixed surface flee:--Alas, Time stays--we go!

Once in the days of old,Your locks were curling gold,And mine had shamed the crow.Now, in the self-same stage,We've reached the silver age;Time goes, you say?--ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong,I filled the woods with songTo praise your "rose" and "snow";My bird, that sang, is dead;Where are your roses fled?Alas, Time stays--we go!

See, in what traversed ways,What backward Fate delaysThe hopes we used to know;Where are our old desires?--Ah, where those vanished fires?Time goes, you say?--ah no!

How far, how far, O sweet,The past behind our feetLies in the even-glow!Now, on the forward way,Let us fold hands, and pray;Alas, Time stays,--we go!

Sickness or buoyant health,-- Whate'er betide, If God provide,'T is for the best; I wish no lot beside.

My times are in thy hand! Should friendship pure illume And strew my path with fairest flowers, Or should I spend life's dreary hours In solitude's dark gloom, Thou art a friend. Till time shall endUnchangeably the same; in thee all beauties blend.

My times are in thy hand! Many or few, my days I leave with thee,--this only pray, That by thy grace, I, every day Devoting to thy praise, May ready be To welcome theeWhene'er thou com'st to set my spirit free.

My times are in thy hand! Howe'er those times may end, Sudden or slow my soul's release, Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace, I'm safe with Christ my friend. If he is nigh, Howe'er I die,'T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstasy.

My times are in thy hand! To thee I can intrust My slumbering clay, till thy command Bids all the dead before thee stand, Awaking from the dust. Beholding thee, What bliss 't will beWith all thy saints to spend eternity!

To spend eternity In heaven's unclouded light! From sorrow, sin, and frailty free, Beholding and resembling thee,-- O too transporting sight! Prospect too fair For flesh to bear!Haste! haste! my Lord, and soon transport me there!

Whilst we do speak, our fire Doth into ice expire, Flames turn to frost; And ere we can Know how our crow turns swan, Or how a silver snow Springs there where jet did grow,Our fading spring is in dull winter lost. Since then the Night hath hurl’d Darkness, Love’s shade, Over its enemy the Day, and made The world Just such a blind and shapeless thingAs ’twas before light did from darkness spring, Let us employ its treasure And make shade pleasure:Let’s number out the hours by blisses,And count the minutes by our kisses; Let the heavens new motions feel And by our embraces wheel; And whilst we try the way By which Love doth convey Soul unto soul, And mingling so Makes them such raptures know As makes them entrancèd lie In mutual ecstasy,Let the harmonious spheres in music roll!