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While those bewitching hands combine, With matchless grace, the silken line, They also weave, with gentle art, Those stronger nets that bind the heart. But soon all earthly things decay: That net in time must wear away: E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay No lasting hold can take: But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d, (And all these charms in thee are join’d) Can throw that net upon the mind, No human art can e’er unbind, No human pow’r can break.

With lovers, ’twas of old the fashion By presents to convey their passion; No matter what the gift they sent, The Lady saw that love was meant. Fair Atalanta , as a favour, Took the boar’s head her Hero gave her; Nor could the bristly thing affront her, ’Twas a fit present from a hunter. When Squires send woodcocks to the dame, It serves to show their absent flame: Some by a snip of woven hair, In posied lockets bribe the fair; How many mercenary matches Have sprung from Di’mond-rings and watches! But hold – a ring, a watch, a locket, Would drain at once a Poet’s pocket; He should send songs that cost him nought, Nor ev’n he prodigal of thought. Why then send Lampreys? fye, for shame! ’Twill set a virgin’s blood on flame. This to fifteen a proper gift! It might lend sixty five a lift. I know your maiden Aunt will scold, And think my present somewhat bold. I see her lift her hands and eyes. ‘What eat it, Niece? eat Spanish flies! ‘Lamprey’s a most immodest diet: ‘You’ll neither wake nor sleep in quiet. ‘Should I to night eat Sago cream, ‘’Twould make me blush to tell my dream; ‘If I eat Lobster, ’tis so warming, ‘That ev’ry man I see looks charming; ‘Wherefore had not the filthy fellow ‘Laid Rochester upon your pillow? ‘I vow and swear, I think the present ‘Had been as modest and as decent. ‘Who has her virtue in her power? ‘Each day has its unguarded hour; ‘Always in danger of undoing, ‘A prawn, a shrimp may prove our ruin! ‘The shepherdess, who lives on salad, ‘To cool her youth, controuls her palate; ‘Should Dian’s maids turn liqu’rish livers, ‘And of huge lampreys rob the rivers, ‘Then all beside each glade and Visto, ‘You’d see Nymphs lying like Calisto . ‘The man who meant to heat your blood, ‘Needs not himself such vicious food –’ In this, I own, your Aunt is clear, I sent you what I well might spare: For when I see you, (without joking) Your eyes, lips, breasts, are so provoking, They set my heart more cock-a-hoop, Than could whole seas of craw-fish soupe.

Don’t believe our outlines, forget them and begin from your own words. As if you are the first to write poetry or the last poet. If you read our work, let it not be an extension of our airs, but to correct our errs in the book of agony. Don’t ask anyone: Who am I? You know who your mother is. As for your father, be your own. Truth is white, write over it with a crow’s ink. Truth is black, write over it with a mirage’s light. If you want to duel with a falcon soar with the falcon. If you fall in love with a woman, be the one, not she, who desires his end. Life is less alive than we think but we don’t think of the matter too much lest we hurt emotions’ health. If you ponder a rose for too long you won’t budge in a storm. You are like me, but my abyss is clear. And you have roads whose secrets never end. They descend and ascend, descend and ascend. You might call the end of youth the maturity of talent or wisdom. No doubt, it is wisdom, the wisdom of a cool non-lyric. One thousand birds in the hand don’t equal one bird that wears a tree. A poem in a difficult time is beautiful flowers in a cemetery. Example is not easy to attain so be yourself and other than yourself behind the borders of echo. Ardor has an expiration date with extended range. So fill up with fervor for your heart’s sake, follow it before you reach your path. Don’t tell the beloved, you are I and I am you, say the opposite of that: we are two guests of an excess, fugitive cloud. Deviate, with all your might, deviate from the rule. Don’t place two stars in one utterance and place the marginal next to the essential to complete the rising rapture. Don’t believe the accuracy of our instructions. Believe only the caravan’s trace. A moral is as a bullet in its poet’s heart a deadly wisdom. Be strong as a bull when you’re angry weak as an almond blossom when you love, and nothing, nothing when you serenade yourself in a closed room. The road is long like an ancient poet’s night: plains and hills, rivers and valleys. Walk according to your dream’s measure: either a lily follows you or the gallows. Your tasks are not what worry me about you. I worry about you from those who dance over their children’s graves, and from the hidden cameras in the singers’ navels. You won’t disappoint me, if you distance yourself from others, and from me. What doesn’t resemble me is more beautiful. From now on, your only guardian is a neglected future. Don’t think, when you melt in sorrow like candle tears, of who will see you or follow your intuition’s light. Think of yourself: is this all of myself? The poem is always incomplete, the butterflies make it whole. No advice in love. It’s experience. No advice in poetry. It’s talent. And last but not least, Salaam.

Achilles Holt, Stanford, 1930 Here for a few short years Strengthen affections; meet, Later, the dull arrears Of age, and be discreet. The angry blood burns low. Some friend of lesser mind Discerns you not; but so Your solitude’s defined. Write little; do it well. Your knowledge will be such, At last, as to dispel What moves you overmuch.

Lying asleep walking Last night I met my father Who seemed pleased to see me. He wanted to speak. I saw His mouth saying something But the dream had no sound. We were surrounded by Laid-up paddle steamers In The Old Quay in Greenock. I smelt the tar and the ropes. It seemed that I was standing Beside the big iron cannon The tugs used to tie up to When I was a boy. I turned To see Dad standing just Across the causeway under That one lamp they keep on. He recognised me immediately. I could see that. He was The handsome, same age With his good brows as when He would take me on Sundays Saying we’ll go for a walk. Dad, what am I doing here? What is it I am doing now? Are you proud of me? Going away, I knew You wanted to tell me something. You stopped and almost turned back To say something. My father, I try to be the best In you you give me always. Lying asleep turning Round in the quay-lit dark It was my father standing As real as life. I smelt The quay’s tar and the ropes. I think he wanted to speak. But the dream had no sound. I think I must have loved him.

Since man with that inconstancy was born, To love the absent, and the present scorn Why do we deck, why do we dress For such short-lived happiness? Why do we put attraction on, Since either way ’tis we must be undone? They fly if honour take our part, Our virtue drives ’em o’er the field. We love ’em by too much desert, And oh! they fly us if we yield. Ye gods! is there no charm in all the fair To fix this wild, this faithless wanderer? Man! our great business and our aim, For whom we spread our fruitless snares, No sooner kindles the designing flame, But to the next bright object bears The trophies of his conquest and our shame: Inconstancy’s the good supreme The rest is airy notion, empty dream! Then heedless nymph, be rul’d by me If e’re your swain the bliss desire; Think like Alexis he may be Whose wisht possession damps his fire; The roving youth in every shade Has left some sighing and abandon’d maid, For ’tis a fatal lesson he has learn’d, After fruition ne’er to be concern’d.

When Love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my Gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at the Grates; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye, The Gods that wanton in the Air, Know no such Liberty. When flowing Cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames , Our careless heads with Roses bound, Our hearts with Loyal Flames; When thirsty grief in Wine we steep, When Healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the Deep Know no such Liberty. When (like committed linnets) I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, Mercy, Majesty, And glories of my King; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how Great should be, Enlargèd Winds, that curl the Flood, Know no such Liberty. Stone Walls do not a Prison make, Nor Iron bars a Cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for an Hermitage. If I have freedom in my Love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above, Enjoy such Liberty.

Shy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart. She carries in the dishes, And lays them in a row. To an isle in the water With her would I go. She carries in the candles, And lights the curtained room, Shy in the doorway And shy in the gloom; And shy as a rabbit, Helpful and shy. To an isle in the water With her would I fly.

The great sun sinks behind the town Through a red mist of Volnay wine . . . . But what’s the use of setting down That glorious blaze behind the town? You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look For newer pictures in this book; You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine. A fresh wind fills the evening air With horrid crying of night birds . . . . But what reads new or curious there When cold winds fly across the air? You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page, But find no glimpse of your ‘New Age Of Poetry’ in my worn-out words. Must winds that cut like blades of steel And sunsets swimming in Volnay, The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, Die stillborn, because old men squeal For something new: ‘Write something new: We’ve read this poem – that one too, And twelve more like ’em yesterday’? No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl Just what I fancy as I strike it, Fairies and Fusiliers, and all. Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl Across my verse in the classic way. And, sir, be careful what you say; There are old-fashioned folk still like it.

Let’s call for Hymen if agreed thou art – Delays in love but crucify the heart. Love’s thorny tapers yet neglected lie; Speak thou the word, they’ll kindle by and by. The nimble hours woo us on to wed, And Genius waits to have us both to bed. Behold, for us the naked Graces stay With maunds of roses for us to strew the way. Besides, the most religious prophet stands Ready to join as well our hearts as hands. June yet smiles; but if she chance to chide, Ill luck ’twill bode to th’bridegroom and the bride. Tell me Anthea, dost thou fondly dread The loss of that we call a maidenhead? Come, I’ll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire Is not by marriage quenched, but flames the higher.