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Pótuia, pótuia White grave goddess, Pity my sadness, O silence of Paros. I am not of these about thy feet, These garments and decorum; I am thy brother, Thy lover of aforetime crying to thee, And thou hearest me not. I have whispered thee in thy solitudes Of our loves in Phrygia, The far ecstasy of burning noons When the fragile pipes Ceased in the cypress shade, And the brown fingers of the shepherd Moved over slim shoulders; And only the cicada sang. I have told thee of the hills And the lisp of reeds And the sun upon thy breasts, And thou hearest me not, Pótuia, pótuia Thou hearest me not.

There's a flutter of grey through the trees: Ah, the exquisite curves of her dress as she passes Fleet with her feet on the path where the grass is! I see not her face, I but see The swift re-appearance, the flitting persistence— There!—of that flutter of grey in the distance. It has flickered and fluttered away: What a teasing regret she has left in my day-dream, And what dreams of delight are the dreams that one may dream! It was only a flutter of grey; But the vaguest of raiment's impossible chances Has set my heart beating the way of old dances.

(At Inversneyde, upon Loch Lomond) Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower Of beauty is thy earthly dower! Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head: And these grey rocks; that household lawn; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn; This fall of water that doth make A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode— In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence. Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer: A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality: Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father—anything to thee! Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompense. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last. Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And thee, the spirit of them all!

Now you have freely given me leave to love, What will you do? Shall I your mirth, or passion move, When I begin to woo; Will you torment, or scorn, or love me too? Each petty beauty can disdain, and I Spite of your hate Without your leave can see, and die; Dispense a nobler fate! ’Tis easy to destroy, you may create. Then give me leave to love, and love me too Not with design To raise, as Love’s cursed rebels do, When puling poets whine, Fame to their beauty, from their blubbered eyne. Grief is a puddle, and reflects not clear Your beauty’s rays; Joys are pure streams, your eyes appear Sullen in sadder lays; In cheerful numbers they shine bright with praise, Which shall not mention to express you fair, Wounds, flames, and darts, Storms in your brow, nets in your hair, Suborning all your parts, Or to betray, or torture captive hearts. I’ll make your eyes like morning suns appear, As mild, and fair; Your brow as crystal smooth, and clear, And your disheveled hair Shall flow like a calm region of the air.

To love these books, and harmless tea, Has always been my foible, Yet will I ne’er forgetful be To read my Psalms and Bible. Travels I like, and history too, Or entertaining fiction; Novels and plays I’d have a few, If sense and proper diction. I love a natural harmless song, But I cannot sing like Handel; Deprived of such resource, the tongue Is sure employed — in scandal.

Since you are, dear madam, so favoured by time, That he seems to have granted a lease of his prime, With the power to renew it whenever you please; Unencumbered by taxes of age and disease; Prolonging that date, which in others appears, The frail fleeting tenure of very few years: Why could you not ask him some favour to send, Enclosed with a present designed for a friend? One tint for her cheeks of youth’s vivid hue, To suit with those beautiful ribands of blue; One spark for her eyes of a juvenile twinkle, One smile of her mouth undeformed by a wrinkle; One ringlet or two — on her forehead to play, Unmixed with the sorrowful colour of grey? Yet too modest, perhaps, these requests you forbore, Yourself so indebted would not ask for more. And perchance had you teased him, thus Time might reply; ‘That to you I am partial — I will not deny; Nor need I declare — what who sees you must know: That on few I such singular graces bestow. But if from my rules I recede for your sake, And still give to you what from others I take, I cannot for all so go out of my way, And reverse those decrees which all mortals obey. My law is that youth shall soon wither and fade, And like morning’s bright beam shall be followed by shade. Most severe is the sentence I pass on the face, Full soon on its features my finger you trace. Yet I no such dread rigour extend to the mind, In age that still charms if it be but resigned. If calmly beholding fair youth’s setting sun, It with fortitude reckons my sands as they run; Not with peevishness fraught as each wrinkle appears, And resisting my progress with petulant tears. No — your sex must learn patient good humour of you, And meet my approaches with smiles as you do: With temper unruffled by envy or spleen, Like the sun of the autumn — thus mild and serene, Learn of you to converse with politeness and ease; Then in spite of my spoils — they will know how to please.

Germ of new life, whose powers expanding slow For many a moon their full perfection wait,— Haste, precious pledge of happy love, to go Auspicious borne through life's mysterious gate. What powers lie folded in thy curious frame,— Senses from objects locked, and mind from thought! How little canst thou guess thy lofty claim To grasp at all the worlds the Almighty wrought! And see, the genial season's warmth to share, Fresh younglings shoot, and opening roses glow! Swarms of new life exulting fill the air,— Haste, infant bud of being, haste to blow! For thee the nurse prepares her lulling songs, The eager matrons count the lingering day; But far the most thy anxious parent longs On thy soft cheek a mother's kiss to lay. She only asks to lay her burden down, That her glad arms that burden may resume; And nature's sharpest pangs her wishes crown, That free thee living from thy living tomb. She longs to fold to her maternal breast Part of herself, yet to herself unknown; To see and to salute the stranger guest, Fed with her life through many a tedious moon. Come, reap thy rich inheritance of love! Bask in the fondness of a Mother's eye! Nor wit nor eloquence her heart shall move Like the first accents of thy feeble cry. Haste, little captive, burst thy prison doors! Launch on the living world, and spring to light! Nature for thee displays her various stores, Opens her thousand inlets of delight. If charmed verse or muttered prayers had power, With favouring spells to speed thee on thy way, Anxious I'd bid my beads each passing hour, Till thy wished smile thy mother's pangs o'erpay.

There is health in thy gray wing, Health of nature’s furnishing. Say, thou modern-winged antique, Was thy mistress ever sick? In each heaving of thy wing Thou dost health and leisure bring, Thou dost waive disease and pain And resume new life again.

On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786 Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonie gem. Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet, Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet Wi' spreck'd breast, When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield: But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of artless maid, Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! By love's simplicity betray'd And guileless trust; Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low i' the dust. Such is the fate of simple bard, On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Unskilful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage and gales blow hard, And whelm him o'er! Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n, Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, By human pride or cunning driv'n To mis'ry's brink; Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, He ruin'd sink! Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine—no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate, Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight Shall be thy doom.

Somewhere out of antiquity someone work with me. When transferring a thought, the connectors and clauses recede: you get it. I got it — The rest of the language, beauty and play I am your master, the thought says — I disagree I’m thinking about the church where we held my brother’s funeral. He says, I was there: it hurt me; you cried too much; I don’t mind later. I just want to be with you, the thought says You mean thee thought or his thought? The rocks are like stars, gully full of stars. If I go with anyone anywhere, if they’d think sweetly to me. No one hears. Relax your shoulders. I’m singing to you over and over “to a new sex.” Sometimes it seems like there’s a lizard for each rock necklaces of lives, there’s room for an infinity of minds. Thoughts. Anywhere. Enter my head if you wish. No ends or purposes Prevailed fortunes. I have a destiny. My death will not complete it.