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For there is a dram. For there is a farthing. A bushel for your thoughts. A hand for your withered heights. For I have jouled along attempting to quire and wisp. For I have sized up a mountain’s meters, come down jiffy by shake to the tune of leagues and stones. For once I was your peckish darling. For once there was the measure of what an ox could plow in a single morning. For once the fother, the reed, the palm. For one megalithic year I fixed my gaze on the smiling meniscus, against the gray wall of graduated cylinder. For once I measured ten out of ten on the scale of pain. For I knew that soon I’d kiss good-bye the bovate, the hide and hundredweight. For in each pinch of salt, a whisper of doubt, for in each medieval moment, emotion, like an unruly cough syrup bottle, uncapped. For though I dutifully swallowed my banana doses, ascended, from welcome to lanthorn, three barleycorns at a time, I could not tackle the trudging, trenchant cart. For now I am forty rods from your chain and bolt. For now I am my six-sacked self.

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea, By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be. On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island, The voice of a violin lasts in the air And leads into a starry night. And those who expected lightning and thunder Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangels’ trumps Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and the moon are above, As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, As long as rosy infants are born No one believes it is happening now. Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet Yet is not a prophet, for he’s much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes: There will be no other end of the world, There will be no other end of the world. Warsaw, 1944

Only the wanderer Knows England's graces, Or can anew see clear Familiar faces. And who loves joy as he That dwells in shadows? Do not forget me quite, O Severn meadows.

(from Henry VIII ) Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

Out upon it, I have lov’d Three whole days together; And am like to love three more, If it prove fair weather. Time shall moult away his wings, Ere he shall discover In the whole wide world again Such a constant lover. But the spite on’t is, no praise Is due at all to me; Love with me had made no stays, Had it any been but she. Had it any been but she, And that very face, There had been at least ere this A dozen dozen in her place.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou, Spirit of Delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou are fled away. How shall ever one like me Win thee back again? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain. Spirit false! thou hast forgot All but those who need thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismay'd; Even the sighs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear. Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure; Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of Delight! The fresh Earth in new leaves dress'd, And the starry night; Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born. I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost; I love waves, and winds, and storms, Everything almost Which is Nature's, and may be Untainted by man's misery. I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less. I love Love—though he has wings, And like light can flee, But above all other things, Spirit, I love thee— Thou art love and life! Oh come, Make once more my heart thy home.

Questions for a zoologist starting with anatomy concluding with love: Is a turtle’s skin loaned? True or false: weight of his shell is lighter than the light of drums. What is the under-shell and is it tough as a mangrove? Can he see through his shell-box? Can he see out the rear to this sea of ours? Does he exist in the order of things? How does life begin, when does it end and is that good or evil? Yellow margin over a cuttlebone, domed carapace is it a lonely world of sow bugs, cutworms, and God?

(from Much Ado About Nothing ) Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no more Of dumps so dull and heavy. The fraud of men was ever so Since summer first was leafy. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into hey, nonny, nonny.

Strephon, your breach of faith and trust Affords me no surprise; A man who grateful was, or just, Might make my wonder rise. That heart to you so fondly tied, With pleasure wore its chain, But from your cold neglectful pride, Found liberty again. For this no wrath inflames my mind, My thanks are due to thee; Such thanks as gen'rous victors find, Who set their captives free.

(from Measure for Measure ) Take, oh take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes: the breake of day, Lights that do mislead the Morn; But my kisses bring again, bring again, Seals of love, but sealed in vain, sealed in vain.