Hope poems/ page 8 of 439 /
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written ambassageTo witness duty, not to shew my wit
Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catchOne of her feathered creatures broke away,Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatchIn pursuit of the thing she would have stay,Whil'st her neglected child holds her in chase,Cries to catch her whose busy care is bentTo follow that which flies before her face,Not prizing her poor infant's discontent,So run'st thou after that which flies from thee,Whil'st I, thy babe, chase thee afar behind
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So do our minutes hasten to their end,Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend
How like a winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,What old December's bareness every where!And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,The teeming autumn big with rich increase,Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,Like widowed wombs after their lord's decease;Yet this abundant issue seem'd to meBut hope of orphans, and un-fathered fruit,For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And thou away, the very birds are mute, Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near
Pale ocean rock! that, like a phantom shape,Or some mysterious spirit's tenement,Risest amid this weltering waste of waves,Lonely and desolate, thy spreading baseIs planted in the sea's unmeasured depths,Where rolls the huge leviathan o'er sandsGlistening with shipwrecked treasures
The wrathful winter, 'proaching on apace,With blustering blasts had all ybar'd the treen,And old Saturnus, with his frosty face,With chilling cold had pierc'd the tender green;The mantles rent, wherein enwrapped been The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown
To all you ladies now at land We men at sea indite;But first would have you understand How hard it is to write:The Muses now, and Neptune too,We must implore to write to you-- With a fa, la, la, la, la!
For though the Muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain,Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main,Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,Roll up and down our ships at sea-- With a fa, la, la, la, la!
Then if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind;Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen, or by wind:Our tears we'll send a speedier way,The tide shall bring 'em twice a day-- With a fa, la, la, la, la!
The King with wonder and surprise Will swear the seas grow bold
I Wide marshes ever washed in clearest air,Whether beneath the sole and spectral star The dear severity of dawn you wear,Or whether in the joy of ample day And speechless ecstasy of growing JuneYou lie and dream the long blue hours away Till nightfall comes too soon,Or whether, naked to the unstarred night,You strike with wondering awe my inward sight, --
II Go forth to you with longing, though the yearsThat turn not back like your returning streams And fain would mist the memory with tears,Though the inexorable years deny My feet the fellowship of your deep grass,O'er which, as o'er another, tenderer sky, Cloud phantoms drift and pass, --You know my confident love, since first, a child,Amid your wastes of green I wandered wild