SONNET. ON HIS BLINDNESS. John Milton. WHEN I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide, "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. : His state Is kingly thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait." THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. Christopher Marlowe. COME, live with me, and be my love, Where we will sit upon the rocks, There I will make thee beds of roses A gown made of the finest wool A belt of straw, and ivy-buds, The shepherd swains shall dance and sing O, HOW MUCH MORE DOTH BEAUTY BEAUTEOUS SEEM. William Shakespeare. O, How much more doth beauty beauteous seem The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye When summer's breath their masked buds discloses : Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made: FROM YOU HAVE I BEEN ABSENT IN THE SPRING. William Shakespeare. FROM you have I been absent in the spring, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion of the rose; THE SHELL. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. SEE what a lovely shell, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work divine, With delicate spine and whorl, What is it? A learned man Slight, to be crush'd with a tap Here on the Breton strand! THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. William Wordsworth. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The winds that will be howling at all hours, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH. Catherine M. Fanshaw. THERE is a river clear and fair, It winds a little here and there It winds about like any hare; And then it takes as straight a course, As on the turnpike road a horse, Or through the air an arrow. |