872 Life poems

Now is the time for mirth, Nor cheek or tongue be dumb; For with the flow'ry earth The golden pomp is come. The golden pomp is come; For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here. Now reigns the rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow And my retorted hairs. Homer, this health to thee, In sack of such a kind That it would make thee see Though thou wert ne'er so blind. Next, Virgil I'll call forth To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth. A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid, and suppose, Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose. Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus, I quaff up To that terse muse of thine. Wild I am now with heat; O Bacchus! cool thy rays! Or frantic, I shall eat Thy thyrse, and bite the bays. Round, round the roof does run; And being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius. Now, to Tibullus, next, This flood I drink to thee; But stay, I see a text That this presents to me. Behold, Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn. Trust to good verses then; They only will aspire, When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire. And when all bodies meet, In Lethe to be drown'd, Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.

Of Chesterton, In the County of Huntingdon, Esquire How blessed is he, who leads a Country Life, Unvex’d with anxious Cares, and void of Strife! Who studying Peace, and shunning Civil Rage, Enjoy’d his Youth, and now enjoys his Age: All who deserve his Love, he makes his own; And, to be lov’d himself, needs only to be known. Just, Good, and Wise, contending Neighbours come From your Award to wait their final Doom; And, Foes before, return in Friendship home. Without their Cost, you terminate the Cause; And save th’ Expence of long Litigious Laws: Where Suits are travers’d; and so little won, That he who conquers, is but last undone: Such are not your Decrees; but so design’d, The Sanction leaves a lasting Peace behind; Like your own Soul, Serene; a Pattern of your Mind. Promoting Concord, and composing Strife, Lord of your self, uncumber’d with a Wife; Where, for a Year, a Month, perhaps a Night, Long Penitence succeeds a short Delight: Minds are so hardly match’d, that ev’n the first, Though pair’d by Heav’n, in Paradise, were curs’d. For Man and Woman, though in one they grow, Yet, first or last, return again to Two. He to God’s Image, She to His was made; So, farther from the Fount, the Stream at random stray’d. How cou’d He stand, when, put to double Pain, He must a Weaker than himself sustain! Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone; Two Wrestlers help to pull each other down. Not that my Verse wou’d blemish all the Fair; But yet, if some be Bad, ‘tis Wisdom to beware; And better shun the Bait, than struggle in the Snare. Thus have you shunn’d, and shun the married State, Trusting as little as you can to Fate. No porter guards the Passage of your Door; T’ admit the Wealthy, and exclude the Poor: For God, who gave the Riches, gave the Heart To sanctifie the Whole, by giving Part: Heav’n, who foresaw the Will, the Means has wrought, And to the Second Son, a Blessing brought: The First-begotten had his Father’s Share, But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca’s Heir. So may your Stores, and fruitful Fields increase; And ever be you bless’d, who live to bless. As Ceres sow’d where e’er her Chariot flew; As Heav’n in Desarts rain’d the Bread of Dew, So free to Many, to Relations most, You feed with Manna your own Israel-Host. With Crowds attended of your ancient Race, You seek the Champian-Sports, or Sylvan-Chace: With well-breath’d Beagles, you surround the Wood, Ev’n then, industrious of the Common Good: And often have you brought the wily Fox To suffer for the Firstlings of the Flocks; Chas’d ev’n amid the Folds; and made to bleed, Like Felons, where they did the murd’rous Deed. This fiery Game, your active Youth maintain’d: Not yet, by years extinguish’d, though restrain’d: You season still with Sports your serious Hours; For Age but tastes of Pleasures, Youth devours. The Hare, in Pastures or in Plains is found, Emblem of Humane Life, who runs the Round; And, after all his wand’ring Ways are done, His Circle fills, and ends where he begun, Just as the Setting meets the Rising Sun. Thus Princes ease their Cares: But happier he, Who seeks not Pleasure thro’ Necessity, Than such as once on slipp’ry Thrones were plac’d; And chasing, sigh to think themselves are chas’d. So liv’d our Sires, e’er Doctors learn’d to kill, And multiply’d with theirs, the Weekly Bill: The first Physicians by Debauch were made: Excess began, and Sloth sustains the Trade. Pity the gen’rous Kind their Cares bestow To search forbidden Truths; (a Sin to know:) To which, if Humane Science cou’d attain, The Doom of Death, pronounc’d by God, were vain. In vain the Leech wou’d interpose Delay; Fatefastensfirst, and vindicates the Prey. What Help from Arts Endeavours can we have! Guibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save: But Maurus sweeps whole Parishes, and Peoples ev’ry Grave, And no more Mercy to Mankind will use, Than when he robb’d and murder’d Maro’s Muse. Wou’dst thou be soon dispatch’d, and perish whole? Trust Maurus with thy Life, and M-lb-rne with thy Soul. By Chace our long-liv’d Fathers earned their Food; Toil strung the Nerves, and purifi’d the Blood: But we, their Sons, a pamper’d Race of Men, Are dwindl’d down to threescore Years and ten. Better to hunt in Fields, for Health unbought, Than fee the Doctor for a nauseous Draught. The Wise, for Cure, on Exercise depend; God never made his Work, for Man to mend. The Tree of Knowledge, one in Eden plac’d, Was easie found, but was forbid the Taste: O, had our Grandsire walk’d without his Wife, He first had sought the better Plant of Life! Now, both are lost: Yet, wandring in the dark, Physicians for the Tree have found the Bark They, lab’ring for Relief of Humane Kind, With sharpen’d sight some Remedies may find; Th’ Apothecary-Train is wholly blind. From Files, a Random-Recipe they take, And Many Deaths of One Prescription make. Garth, gen’rous as his Muse, prescribes and gives; The Shop-man sells; and by Destruction lives: Ungrateful Tribe! who, like the Viper’s Brood, From Med’cine issuing, suck their Mother’s Blood! Let These obey; and let the Learn’d prescribe; That Men may die, without a double Bribe: Let Them, but under their Superiours, kill; When Doctors first have sign’d the bloody Bill: He scapes the best, who Nature to repair, Draws Phisick from the Fields, in Draughts of Vital Air. You hoard not Health, for your own private use, But on the Publick spend the rich Produce. When, often urg’d, unwilling to be Great, Your Country calls you from your lov’d Retreat, And sends to Senates, charg’d with Common Care, Which none more shuns; and none can better bear. Where cou’d they find another form’d so fit, To poise, with solid Sense, a spritely Wit! Were these both wanting, (as they both abound) Where cou’d so firm Integrity be found? Well-born and Wealthy; wanting no Support, You steer betwixt the Country and the Court: Nor gratifie whate’er the Great desire, Nor grudging give, what Publick Needs require. Part must be left, a Fund when Foes invade; And Part employ’d to roll the Watry Trade; Ev’n Canaans happy Land, when worn with Toil, Requir’d a Sabbath-Year, to mend the meagre Soil. Good senators, (and such are you so give, That Kings may be supply’d, the People thrive; And He, when Want requires, is truly Wise, Who slights not Foreign Aids nor over-buys; But, on our Native Strength, in time of need, relies. Munster was bought, we boast not the Success; Who fights for Gain, for greater, makes his Peace. Our Foes, compell’d by Need have Peace embrac’d: The Peace both Parties want, is like to last: Which, if secure, securely we may trade; Or, not secure, shou’d never have been made. Safe in our selves, while on our selves we stand, The Sea is ours, and that defends the Land. Be, then, the Naval Stores the Nations Care, New Ships to build, and batter’d to repair. Observe the War in ev’ry Annual Course; What has been done, was done with British Force. Namur Subdu’d, is England’s Palm alone; The Rest Besieged; but we Constrain’d the Town: We saw th’ Event that follow’d our Success; France, though pretending Arms, pursu’d the Peace: Oblig’d, by one sole Treaty, to restore What Twenty Years of War had won before. Enough for Europe has our Albion fought: Let us enjoy the Peace our Blood has bought. When once the Persian King was put to Flight, The weary Macedons refus’d to fight: Themselves their own Mortality confess’d; And left the son of Jove, to quarrel for the rest. Ev’n Victors are by Victories undone; Thus Hannibal, with Foreign Laurels won, To Carthage was recall’d, too late to keep his own. While sore of Battel, while our Wounds are green, Why shou’d we tempt the doubtful Dye agen? In Wars renew’d, uncertain of success, Sure of a Share, as Umpires of the Peace. A Patriot, both the King and Country serves; Prerogative, and Privilege preserves: Of Each, our Laws the certain Limit show; One must not ebb, not t’ other overflow: Betwixt the Prince and Parliament we stand; The Barriers of the State on either Hand: May neither overflow, for then they drown the Land. When both are full, they feed our bless’d Abode; Like those, that water’d once, the Paradise of God. Some Overpoise of Sway, by Turns they share; In Peace the People, and the Prince in War: Consuls of mod’rate Pow’r in Calms were made; When the Gauls came, one sole Dictator sway’d. Patriots, in Peace, assert the Peoples Right, With noble Stubbornness resisting Might: No Lawless Mandates from the Court receive, Nor lend by Force; but in a Body give. Such was your gen’rous Grandsire; free to grant In Parliaments, that weigh’d their Prince’s Want: But so tenacious of the Common Cause, As not to lend the King against his Laws. And, in a lothsom Dungeon doom’d to lie, In Bonds retain’d his Birthright Liberty, And shamed Oppression, till it set him free. O true Descendent of a Patriot Line, Who, while thou shar’st their Lustre, lend’st ‘em thine, Vouchsafe this Picture of thy Soul to see; Tis so far Good as it resembles thee: The Beauties to th’ Original I owe; Which, when I miss, my own Defects I show, Nor think the Kindred-Muses thy Disgrace; A poet is not born in ev’ry Race. Two of a House, few Ages can afford; One of perform, another to record. Praise-worthy Actions are by thee embrac’d; And ‘tis my Praise, to make thy Praises last. For ev’n when Death dissolves our Humane Frame, The Soul returns to Heav’n, from whence it came; Earth keeps the Body, Verse preserves the Fame.

Since I was the one who had been ill, it was me she came to see. Everyone wanted a glimpse of her. The people emerged from their houses toward mine and with such caution. They made a visor of their hands. It was as if they were to be accounted for, wading the long uphill, little moving triangles all I could distinguish at first. But the queen came to see only me and I saw her. And my life for a while was dismissed and so repaired.

Now as I watch you, strong of arm and endurance, battling and struggling With the waves that rush against you, ever with invincible strength returning Into my heart, grown each day more tranquil and peaceful, comes a fierce longing Of mind and soul that will not be appeased until, like you, I breast yon deep and boundless expanse of blue. With an outward stroke of power intense your mighty arm goes forth, Cleaving its way through waters that rise and roll, ever a ceaseless vigil keeping Over the treasures beneath. My heart goes out to you of dauntless courage and spirit indomitable, And though my lips would speak, my spirit forbids me to ask, “Is your heart as true as your arm?”

Twilight folds over houses on our street; its hazy gold is gilding our front lawns, delineating asphalt and concrete driveways with shadows. Evening is coming on, quietly, like a second drink, the beers men hold while rising from their plastic chairs to stand above their sprinklers, and approve. Soon the fireflies will rise in lucent droves— for now, however, everything seems content to settle into archetypal grooves: the toddler's portraits chalked out on cement, mothers in windows, finishing the dishes. Chuck Connelly's cigarette has burned to ashes; he talks politics to Roger in the drive. "It's all someone can do just to survive," he says, and nods—both nod—and pops another beer from the cooler. "No rain. Would you believe—" says Chuck, checking the paper for the weather. At least a man can keep his yard in shape. Somewhere beyond this plotted cityscape their sons drive back and forth in borrowed cars: how small their city seems now, and how far away they feel from last year, when they rode their bikes to other neighborhoods, to score a smoke or cop a feel in some girl's bed. They tune the radio to this summer's song and cruise into the yet-to-exhale lung of August night. Nothing to do but this. These are the times they'd never dream they'll miss— the hour spent chasing a party long burned out, graphic imagined intercourse with Denise. This is all they can even think about, and thankfully, since what good would it do to choke on madeleines of temps perdu when so much time is set aside for that? Not that their fathers weaken with regret as nighttime settles in—no, their wives are on the phone, the cooler has Labatt to spare; at nine the Giants play the Braves. There may be something to romanticize about their own first cars, the truths and lies they told their friends about some summer fling, but what good is it now, when anything recalled is two parts true and one part false? When no one can remember just who sang that song that everybody loved? What else? It doesn't come to mind. The sprinkler spits in metronome; they're out of cigarettes. Roger folds up his chair, calls it a day. The stars come out in cosmic disarray, and windows flash with television blues. The husbands come to bed, nothing to say but 'night . Two hours late—with some excuse— their sons come home, too full of songs and girls to notice dew perfect its muted pearls or countless crickets singing for a mate.

Go home. It's never what you think it is, The kiss, the diamond, the slamdance pulse in the wrist. Nothing is true, my dear, not even this Rumor of passion you'll doubtless insist On perceiving in my glance. Please just Go. Home is never what you think it is. Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist Is always almost just about to lift. Nothing is truer. Dear, not even this Candle can explain its searing twist Of flame mounted on cool amethyst. Go on home—not where you think it is, But where you would expect its comfort least, In still-black stars our century will miss Seeing. Nothingness is not as true as this Faith we grind up with denial: grist To the midnight mill; morning's catalyst. Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is. Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this.

If it was free, you taught, I ought to grab it as you did: McDonald’s napkins, pens, and from the school where you were once employed as one of two night shift custodians, the metal imitation wood wastebasket still under my desk. But it was sugar that you took most often as, annoyed on leaving Dunkin’ Donuts, pancake house, and countless diners, I felt implicated in your pleasure, crime, and poverty. I have them still, your Ziploc bags of plunder, yet I find today, among the loose change in my pockets, packets crushed or faded— more proof of your lasting legacy.

And it grows, the vain summer, even for us with our bright green sins: behold the dry guest, the wind, as it stirs up quarrels among magnolia boughs and plays its serene tune on the prows of all the leaves— and then is gone, leaving the leaves still there, the tree still green, but breaking the heart of the air.

The swinger the swirler the swirled: stop grieving. I drink all night but in a diminishing appetite. The scene outside is obscene from a humbling window. My sentiment spreads, my famine a flagpole, a grizzle. Birds sing next year’s songs, or antique rescues. I write but where shall I send it? Let go — I shall go tie the flowers the leaves the whole orchard. The outskirts are curved, shadows of countrywoman donors    ... You bring me a cup of fresh tea that I love, I return you two kapok leaves — like hand waves. Translated from the Chinese

Summer brings out the girls in their green dresses Whom the foolish might compare to daffodils, Not seeing how a dead grandmother in each one governs her limbs, Darkening the bright corolla, using her lips to speak through, Or that a silver torque was woven out of The roots of wet speargrass. The young are mastered by the Dead, Lacking cunning. But on the beaches, under the clean wind That blows this way from the mountains of Peru, Drunk with the wind and the silence, not moving an inch As the surf-swimmers mount on yoked waves, One can begin to shake with laughter, Becoming oneself a metal Neptune. To want nothing is The only possible freedom. But I prefer to think of An afternoon spent drinking rum and cloves In a little bar, just after the rain had started, in another time Before we began to die — the taste of boredom on the tongue Easily dissolving, and the lights coming on — With what company? I forget. Where can we find the right Herbs, drinks, bandages to cover These lifelong intolerable wounds? Herbs of oblivion, they lost their power to help us The day that Aphrodite touched her mouth to ours.