Andrew Marvell.
1621–1678

HOW vainly men themselves amaze

To win the palm, the oak, or bays,

And their uncessant labours see

Crown’d from some single herb or tree,

Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade

Does prudently their toils upbraid;

While all the flowers and trees do close

To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,

And Innocence thy sister dear?

Mistaken long, I sought you then

In busy companies of men:

Your sacred plants, if here below,

Only among the plants will grow:

Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen

So amorous as this lovely green.

Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,

Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:

Little, alas! they know or heed

How far these beauties hers exceed!

Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passions’ heat,

Love hither makes his best retreat:

The gods, that mortal beauty chase,

Still in a tree did end their race;

Apollo hunted Daphne so

Only that she might laurel grow;

And Pan did after Syrinx speed

Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead!

Ripe apples drop about my head;

The luscious clusters of the vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine;

The nectarine and curious peach

Into my hands themselves do reach;

Stumbling on melons, as I pass,

Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind from pleasure less

Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind

Does straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it creates, transcending these,

Far other worlds, and other seas;

Annihilating all that ’s made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,

Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,

Casting the body’s vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide;

There, like a bird, it sits and sings,

Then whets and combs its silver wings,

And, till prepared for longer flight,

Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-state

While man there walk’d without a mate:

After a place so pure and sweet,

What other help could yet be meet!

But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share

To wander solitary there:

Two paradises ’twere in one,

To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard’ner drew

Of flowers and herbs this dial new!

Where, from above, the milder sun

Does through a fragrant zodiac run:

And, as it works, th’ industrious bee

Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours

Be reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers!

John Milton.
1608 – 1674

HENCE vain deluding joyes,

  The brood of folly without father bred,

How little you bested,

  Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;

Dwell in som idle brain,

  And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

As thick and numberless

  As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,

Or likest hovering dreams

  The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train.

But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy,

Hail divinest Melancholy,

Whose Saintly visage is too bright

To hit the Sense of human sight;

And therfore to our weaker view,

Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.

Black, but such as in esteem,

Prince Memnons sister might beseem,

Or that Starr’d Ethiope Queen that strove

To set her beauties praise above

The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.

Yet thou art higher far descended,

Thee bright-hair’d Vesta long of yore,

To solitary Saturn bore;

His daughter she (in Saturns raign,

Such mixture was not held a stain)

Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades

He met her, and in secret shades

Of woody Ida’s inmost grove,

Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.

Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,

Sober, stedfast, and demure,

All in a robe of darkest grain,

Flowing with majestick train,

And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,

Over thy decent shoulders drawn.

Com, but keep thy wonted state,

With eev’n step, and musing gate,

And looks commercing with the skies,

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:

There held in holy passion still,

Forget thy self to Marble, till

With a sad Leaden downward cast,

Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,

And hears the Muses in a ring,

Ay round about Joves Altar sing.

And adde to these retirèd Leasure,

That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;

But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,

Him that yon soars on golden wing,

Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,

The Cherub Contemplation,

And the mute Silence hist along,

‘Less Philomel will daign a Song,

In her sweetest, saddest plight,

Smoothing the rugged brow of night,

While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,

Gently o’re th’accustom’d Oke;

Sweet Bird that shunn’st the noise of folly,

Most musicall, most melancholy!

Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among,

I woo to hear thy eeven-Song;

And missing thee, I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven Green.

To behold the wandring Moon,

Riding neer her highest noon,

Like one that had bin led astray

Through the Heav’ns wide pathles way;

And oft, as if her head she bow’d,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a Plat of rising ground,

I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,

Over som wide-water’d shoar,

Swinging slow with sullen roar;

Or if the Ayr will not permit,

Som still removèd place will fit,

Where glowing Embers through the room

Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the Cricket on the hearth,

Or the Belmans drousie charm,

To bless the dores from nightly harm:

Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,

Be seen in som high lonely Towr,

Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,

With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear

The spirit of Plato to unfold

What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold

The immortal mind that hath forsook

Her mansion in this fleshly nook:

And of those Dæmons that are found

In fire, air, flood, or under ground,

Whose power hath a true consent

With Planet, or with Element.

Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy

In Scepter’d Pall com sweeping by,

Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,

Or the tale of Troy divine.

Or what (though rare) of later age,

Ennoblèd hath the Buskind stage.

  But, O sad Virgin, that thy power

Might raise Musæus from his bower

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as warbled to the string,

Drew Iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,

And made Hell grant what Love did seek.

Or call up him that left half told

The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarsife,

And who had Canace to wife,

That own’d the vertuous Ring and Glass,

And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,

On which the Tartar King did ride;

And if ought els, great Bards beside,

In sage and solemn tunes have sung,

Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;

Of Forests, and inchantments drear,

Where more is meant then meets the ear.

Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appeer,

Not trickt and frounc’t as she was wont,

With the Attick Boy to hunt,

But Cherchef’t in a comly Cloud,

While rocking Winds are Piping loud,

Or usher’d with a shower still,

When the gust hath blown his fill,

Ending on the russling Leaves,

With minute drops from off the Eaves.

And when the Sun begins to fling

His flaring beams, me Goddes bring

To archèd walks of twilight groves,

And shadows brown that Sylvan loves,

Of Pine, or monumental Oake,

Where the rude Ax with heavèd stroke,

Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.

There in close covert by som Brook,

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from Day’s garish eie,

While the Bee with Honied thie,

That at her flowry work doth sing,

And the Waters murmuring

With such consort as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather’d Sleep;

And let som strange mysterious dream,

Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,

Of lively portrature display’d,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, sweet musick breath

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by som spirit to mortals good,

Or th’unseen Genius of the Wood.

  But let my due feet never fail,

To walk the studious Cloysters pale,

And love the high embowèd Roof,

With antick Pillars massy proof,

And storied Windows richly dight,

Casting a dimm religious light.

There let the pealing Organ blow,

To the full voic’d Quire below,

In Service high, and Anthems cleer,

As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into extasies,

And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peacefull hermitage,

The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,

Where I may sit and rightly spell

Of every Star that Heav’n doth shew,

And every Herb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain

To somthing like Prophetic strain.

These pleasures Melancholy give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

Epigram

Francis Quarles.
1592–1644

MY soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;

Judge not the play before the play is done:

Her plot hath many changes; every day

Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.

George Wither.
1588–1667

ME so oft my fancy drew

Here and there, that I ne’er knew

Where to place desire before

So that range it might no more;

But as he that passeth by

Where, in all her jollity,

Flora’s riches in a row

Do in seemly order grow,

And a thousand flowers stand

Bending as to kiss his hand;

Out of which delightful store

One he may take and no more;

Long he pausing doubteth whether

Of those fair ones he should gather.

First the Primrose courts his eyes,

Then the Cowslip he espies;

Next the Pansy seems to woo him,

Then Carnations bow unto him;

Which whilst that enamour’d swain

From the stalk intends to strain,

(As half-fearing to be seen)

Prettily her leaves between

Peeps the Violet, pale to see

That her virtues slighted be;

Which so much his liking wins

That to seize her he begins.

Yet before he stoop’d so low

He his wanton eye did throw

On a stem that grew more high,

And the Rose did there espy.

Who, beside her previous scent,

To procure his eyes content

Did display her goodly breast,

Where he found at full exprest

All the good that Nature showers

On a thousand other flowers;

Wherewith he affected takes it,

His belovèd flower he makes it,

And without desire of more

Walks through all he saw before.

So I wand’ring but erewhile

Through the garden of this Isle,

Saw rich beauties, I confess,

And in number numberless.

Yea, so differing lovely too,

That I had a world to do

Ere I could set up my rest,

Where to choose and choose the best.

Thus I fondly fear’d, till Fate

(Which I must confess in that

Did a greater favour to me

Than the world can malice do me)

Show’d to me that matchless flower,

Subject for this song of our;

Whose perfection having eyed,

Reason instantly espied

That Desire, which ranged abroad,

There would find a period:

And no marvel if it might,

For it there hath all delight,

And in her hath nature placed

What each several fair one graced.

Let who list, for me, advance

The admirèd flowers of France,

Let who will praise and behold

The reservèd Marigold;

Let the sweet-breath’d Violet now

Unto whom she pleaseth bow;

And the fairest Lily spread

Where she will her golden head;

I have such a flower to wear

That for those I do not care.

Let the young and happy swains

Playing on the Britain plains

Court unblamed their shepherdesses,

And with their gold curlèd tresses

Toy uncensured, until I

Grudge at their prosperity.

Let all times, both present, past,

And the age that shall be last,

Vaunt the beauties they bring forth.

I have found in one such worth,

That content I neither care

What the best before me were;

Nor desire to live and see

Who shall fair hereafter be;

For I know the hand of Nature

Will not make a fairer creature.

William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sir Walter Raleigh.
1552–1618

PASSIONS are liken’d best to floods and streams:

The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;

So, when affection yields discourse, it seems

  The bottom is but shallow whence they come.

They that are rich in words, in words discover

That they are poor in that which makes a lover.

Robert Louis Stevenson.
1850 – 1894

IN the highlands, in the country places,

Where the old plain men have rosy faces,

    And the young fair maidens

        Quiet eyes;

Where essential silence cheers and blesses,

And for ever in the hill-recesses

    Her more lovely music

        Broods and dies—

O to mount again where erst I haunted;

Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,

    And the low green meadows

        Bright with sward;

And when even dies, the million-tinted,

And the night has come, and planets glinted,

    Lo, the valley hollow

        Lamp-bestarr’d!

O to dream, O to awake and wander

There, and with delight to take and render,

    Through the trance of silence,

        Quiet breath!

Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,

Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;

    Only winds and rivers,

        Life and death.

T. Sturge Moore.
b. 1870

‘FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air,

Flowers posied, flowers for the hair,

Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare——’

        ‘O pick me some!’

‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,

Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper Come,

Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb——’

        ‘O let me hear.’

‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,

Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,

Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear——’

        ‘O look at me!’

‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,

Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,

Bob-a-cherry kisses ‘neath a tree——’

        ‘O give me one!’

Thus sand a king and queen in Babylon.

Going Nuclear, an op-ed piece published in the Washington Post on Sunday, is raising quite a stir about nuclear energy’s promising future. It is written by Patrick Moore, the co-founder of Greenpeace, explaining the reasons why he has changed his mind about nuclear power.

“…Thirty years on, my views have changed, and the rest of the environmental movement needs to update its views, too, because nuclear energy may just be the energy source that can save our planet from another possible disaster: catastrophic climate change…”

(Note: you will need to sign into the Washington Post website if you do not already have a user name and password. This service is completely free.)

Post from one of my abandoned blogs – North Farnham Freeholder – recovered from Internet Archive WayBackMachine; March 2011