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Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauty’s orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For in pure love heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more where those stars ’light, That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more if east or west The phoenix builds her spicy nest; For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies.

My liveliest self, I give you fair leave in these windblown weathers, heather-hearted and human and strange, to turn every blackberry corner of yesterday’s summer. The robin, singing her love-me-forever, kiss-catch-clutch-in the heather blues, sings tide flow and autumn’s turning and white winds folding. Cattle along all hedges wind winter into their frosty breathing, their slow eyes dreaming barn, bullock, and fodder under all hedges. But sea cave and sycamore tell us the world is wider than weather. Blackberries darken the corners I turn, and gold seas turning darken, darken. My liveliest self, my other, Godspeed on our farings. The bronze path at evening.            Toward summer, then.                        My hand, your hand— as if first meeting.

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate, And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song.— The words of ancient time I thus translate, A festal strain that hath been silent long:— "From town to town, from tower to tower, The red rose is a gladsome flower. Her thirty years of winter past, The red rose is revived at last; She lifts her head for endless spring, For everlasting blossoming: Both roses flourish, red and white: In love and sisterly delight The two that were at strife are blended, And all old troubles now are ended.— Joy! joy to both! but most to her Who is the flower of Lancaster! Behold her how She smiles to-day On this great throng, this bright array! Fair greeting doth she send to all From every corner of the hall; But chiefly from above the board Where sits in state our rightful Lord, A Clifford to his own restored! "They came with banner, spear, and shield; And it was proved in Bosworth-field. Not long the Avenger was withstood— Earth helped him with the cry of blood: St. George was for us, and the might Of blessed Angels crowned the right. Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, We loudest in the faithful north: Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, Our streams proclaim a welcoming; Our strong-abodes and castles see The glory of their loyalty. "How glad is Skipton at this hour— Though lonely, a deserted Tower; Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom, We have them at the feast of Brough'm. How glad Pendragon—though the sleep Of years be on her!—She shall reap A taste of this great pleasure, viewing As in a dream her own renewing. Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem, Beside her little humble stream; And she that keepeth watch and ward Her statelier Eden's course to guard; They both are happy at this hour, Though each is but a lonely Tower:— But here is perfect joy and pride For one fair House by Emont's side, This day, distinguished without peer, To see her Master and to cheer— Him, and his Lady-mother dear! "Oh! it was a time forlorn When the fatherless was born— Give her wings that she may fly, Or she sees her infant die! Swords that are with slaughter wild Hunt the Mother and the Child. Who will take them from the light? —Yonder is a man in sight— Yonder is a house—but where? No, they must not enter there. To the caves, and to the brooks, To the clouds of heaven she looks; She is speechless, but her eyes Pray in ghostly agonies. Blissful Mary, Mother mild, Maid and Mother undefiled, Save a Mother and her Child! "Now who is he that bounds with joy On Carrock's side, a Shepherd-boy? No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass Light as the wind along the grass. Can this be He who hither came In secret, like a smothered flame? O'er whom such thankful tears were shed For shelter, and a poor man's bread! God loves the Child; and God hath willed That those dear words should be fulfilled, The Lady's words, when forced away The last she to her Babe did say: "My own, my own, thy fellow-guest I may not be; but rest thee, rest, For lowly shepherd's life is best!" "Alas! when evil men are strong No life is good, no pleasure long. The Boy must part from Mosedale's groves, And leave Blencathara's rugged coves, And quit the flowers that summer brings To Glenderamakin's lofty springs; Must vanish, and his careless cheer Be turned to heaviness and fear. —Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise! Hear it, good man, old in days! Thou tree of covert and of rest For this young Bird that is distrest; Among thy branches safe he lay, And he was free to sport and play, When falcons were abroad for prey. "A recreant harp, that sings of fear And heaviness in Clifford's ear! I said, when evil men are strong, No life is good, no pleasure long, A weak and cowardly untruth! Our Clifford was a happy Youth, And thankful through a weary time, That brought him up to manhood's prime. —Again he wanders forth at will, And tends a flock from hill to hill: His garb is humble; ne'er was seen Such garb with such a noble mien; Among the shepherd-grooms no mate Hath he, a Child of strength and state! Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, Nor yet for higher sympathy. To his side the fallow-deer Came and rested without fear; The eagle, lord of land and sea, Stooped down to pay him fealty; And both the undying fish that swim Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him; The pair were servants of his eye In their immortality; And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, Moved to and fro, for his delight. He knew the rocks which Angels haunt Upon the mountains visitant; He hath kenned them taking wing: And into caves where Faeries sing He hath entered; and been told By Voices how men lived of old. Among the heavens his eye can see The face of thing that is to be; And, if that men report him right, His tongue could whisper words of might. —Now another day is come, Fitter hope, and nobler doom; He hath thrown aside his crook, And hath buried deep his book; Armour rusting in his halls On the blood of Clifford calls,— 'Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance— Bear me to the heart of France, Is the longing of the Shield— Tell thy name, thou trembling field; Field of death, where'er thou be, Groan thou with our victory! Happy day, and mighty hour, When our Shepherd, in his power, Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, To his ancestors restored Like a re-appearing Star, Like a glory from afar First shall head the flock of war!" Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed: How he, long forced in humble walks to go, Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; His daily teachers had been woods and rills, The silence that is in the starry sky, The sleep that is among the lonely hills. In him the savage virtue of the Race, Revenge and all ferocious thoughts were dead: Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place The wisdom which adversity had bred. Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth; The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more; And, ages after he was laid in earth, "The good Lord Clifford" was the name he bore.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man’s ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

from An Evening's Love Calm was the even, and clear was the sky, And the new budding flowers did spring, When all alone went Amyntas and I To hear the sweet nightingale sing; I sate, and he laid him down by me; But scarcely his breath he could draw; For when with a fear, he began to draw near, He was dash'd with A ha ha ha ha! He blush'd to himself, and lay still for a while, And his modesty curb'd his desire; But straight I convinc'd all his fear with a smile, Which added new flames to his fire. O Silvia, said he, you are cruel, To keep your poor lover in awe; Then once more he press'd with his hand to my breast, But was dash'd with A ha ha ha ha! I knew 'twas his passion that caus'd all his fear; And therefore I pitied his case: I whisper'd him softly, there's nobody near, And laid my cheek close to his face: But as he grew bolder and bolder, A shepherd came by us and saw; And just as our bliss we began with a kiss, He laugh'd out with A ha ha ha ha!

(from Twelfth Night ) Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death, no one so true Did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown. Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there!

For Audrey Richardson Curdy (1931–1986) It was 1986 , when currencies to be changed Into multiple-launch-surface, anti-tank missiles Swarmed through numbered bank accounts Like Ovid’s seething knotted seed of frog-slime, Which not seldome attracted by the sun falls In little frogs with the rain; when it also rained Radionuclides, strontium, caesium,

from Amphitryon Fair Iris I love and hourly I die, But not for a lip nor a languishing eye: She's fickle and false, and there I agree; For I am as false and as fickle as she: We neither believe what either can say; And, neither believing, we neither betray. 'Tis civil to swear and say things, of course; We mean not the taking for better or worse. When present we love, when absent agree; I think not of Iris, nor Iris of me: The legend of love no couple can find So easy to part, or so equally join'd.

(from Cymbeline ) Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, Nor the furious winter’s rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o’ the great; Thou art past the tyrant’s stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The scepter, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finished joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have; And renownèd be thy grave!

Sweetheart when you break thru you’ll find a poet here not quite what one would choose. I won’t promise you’ll never go hungry or that you won’t be sad on this gutted breaking globe but I can show you baby enough to love to break your heart forever