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باید .
يسة" بعد سق : س سيدة السنس مثل " - خ الأ El
"... بدعت 翡 ==
་་་་་་་་་་ -- 露「気_リ。
, الصلى الله عليه وسلم.................بن گیے؟
for G. C. F. Advanced it (froın 1886
SIPR UCATIONAL PUBLICATIO
 

, ,* :
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********
NS DETARTMENT

Page 2

A Selection of English Poems
for the
G.C.E. Advanced Leve.
Examination
(from 1986)
EDUCATIONAL PUBLICATIONS DEPARTMENT

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91/9/222 (5000)
First Published
Reprinted Reprinted Reprinted Second Reprint
Copyright Reserved.
ii
1983
1987
990
99.
991
ti
s

PREFACE
This book 'A Selection of English Poems' contains the poems that andidates offering English at G.C.E. Advanced Level Examination are 2quired to study from 1986, onwards. These poems were selected by he Advisory Committee for English, appointed by the Ministry of ducation. The following members served on the Advisory Committee
Professor Ranjan Goonatillake, University of Kelaniya Associate Professor Thiru Kandiah, University of Peradeniya Dr. Mrs. Siromi Fernando, University of Colombo Mrs. Chandra Amarasekara, Technical College, Maradana Mrs. Indrani Seneviratne, Royal College, Colombo Mr. S. Hettiarachchi, Kingswood College, Kandy Mr. Nihal G. Cooray, C.D.C. Colombo.
offer my sincere thanks to all those who participated in the compilaon and printing of this book.
M. K. J. A. Alwis Соттissioner, Educational Publications Department.
ducational Publications Department, few Secretariat,
aligawatta,
olombo 1Ô.
987-06-0.
ii

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: Printed at the State Printing Corporation.

C O N T ENTS
Thomas Lodge (1618 - 1658)
“Love guards the roses of thy lips'
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
W“It was a lover and his lass...... V "O mistress mine where are you roaming'
Thomas Campion (1567 - 1620)
W“There is a garden in her face'' & A
“Blame not my cheeks though pale with love they be' ... “Rose - cheaked Laura come '' ,
John Donne (1572-1631)
/Song: “Sweetest love I do not goe’’
A Valediction forbidding mourning ... Thę Sunne Rising “Death be not proud'' po “Batter my heart three person'd God''
John Dryder (1618 - 1658)
The Portrait of Achitophel - From “Absalom and Achitophel'''
The Portrait of Zimri — From “Absalom and Achitophel’’ The Portrait of Og — From “Absalom and Achitophel’’
William Wordsworth (1770 - 1850) “I wandered lonely as a cloud'' "She dwelt among the untrodden ways' "Earth has not anything to show more fair"' ... The Solitary Reaper "A slumber did my spirit seal'
Alfred Tennyson (Iord) (1809 - 1892)
The Lotos Eaters ...
Tithonus A w 0 0 0 Crossing the Bar ...
. Thomas Stearns Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Preludes ... a Morning at the Window La figlia che Piange Journey of the Magi
12 13 14
15 16 17 18 19
20 25
28 30 31 32

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"LOVE GUARDS THE ROSES OF THY LIPs
Love guards the roses of thy lips
And flies about them like a bee;
If I approach he forward skips,
And if I kiss he stingeth me.
Love in thine eyes doth build his bower, And sleeps within his pretty shrine;
And If I look the boy will lower,
And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.
Love works thy heart within his fire,
And in my tears doth firm the same;
And if I tempt it will retire,
And of my plaints doth make a game.
Love, let me cull her choicest flowers;
And pity me, and calm her eye;
Make soft her heart, dissolve her lowers;
The in will I praise thy deity.’
But if thou do not, Love, I'll truly serve her In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve her.
Thomas Lodge

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IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS
(FROM "As You LKE IT')
It was a lover and his lass,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino.
That o'er the green corn-field did pass,
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding;
Sweet lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the rye,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
These pretty country folks would lie,
In the spring time, &c.
This carol they began that hour,
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
How that a life was but a flower In the spring time. &c.
And therefore take the present time,
With a hey, and a ho, andahey nonino
For love is crowned with the prime
In the spring time, &c.
William Shakespeare

O MSTRESS MINE WHERE ARE YOU ROAMING
(FROM “TweLFTH NIGHT")
O mistress mine where are you roaming? O stay and hear; your true love's coming. That can sing both high and low, ..Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, 's
Every wise man's son doth know.
What is Love? 'tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure: In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
William Shakespeare

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IV
“THERE IS A GARDEN...... 9
There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow, There cherries grow which none can buy, Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds filled with snow, Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy, Till "Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still,
Her brows like bended bows do stand Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand Those sacred cherries to eome nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion

V
BLAME NOT MY CHEEKS, THOUGH PALE WITH LOVE THEY BE
Blame not my cheeks, though pale with love they be; The kindly heat into my heart is flown, To cherish it that is dismayed by thee, A Who art so cruel and unsteadfast grown; For Nature called by distressed hearts, Neglects and quite forsakes the outward parts.
But they whose cheeks with careless blood are stained, Nurse not one spark of love within their hearts; And, when they woo, they speak with passion feigned, For their fat love lies in their outward parts; But in their breasts, where Love his court should hold, Poor Cupid sits and blows his nails for cold.
Thomas Campion
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VI
* ROSE-CHEEKED LAURA COME'
Rose-cheeked Laura, come;
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other,
| Sweetly gracing.
Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed;
Heaven is music, and thy beauty's
Birth is heavenly.
These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them,
Only beauty purely loving
Knows no discord.
But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renewed by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them
selves eternal.
Thomas Campion

VII
SONG
Sweetest love, I do not goe, For weariness of thee, , ; Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter Love for meș;
But since that II Must dye at last 'tis best, Touse myselfe in jest jexue
Thus by fain'd deaths to dye; Yestifâği Sunne went hence,
And yet is here to day, He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor halfe so short a way:
Then feare not mee, But beleeve that I shall make Speedier journeyes, since I take
More wings and spurres than hee.
s
O how feeble is mans power,
That if good fortune fall, Cannot adde, another houre,
Nor a lost houre recall
But come bad chance, And wee joyne to 'it our strength, And Wee teach it art and length,
It selfe o'e us to 'advance.
When thou sig'st, thou sigh'st not winde, But sigh'st my Soule away, When thou weep'st, unkindly kinde, My lifes blood doth decay.
It cannot bee That thou lov'st mee, as thousay'st, If in thine my life thou waste, Thou, art the best of mee.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethinke me any ill, Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy feares fulfill;
But thinke that Wee Are but turn'd aside to sleepe; They who one another keepe
Alive, ne'er parted bee.
John Donne

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VIII
A VALEDICTION: FORBIDDING MoURNING
AS virtuous men passe mildly away,
And whisper to their soules, to goe,
Whilst some of their sad friends doe say,
The breath goes now, and some say, no:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move, T' were prophanation of ourjoyes
To tell the layetie our love. Moving of th'earth brings harmes and feares, Men reckon what it edid and meant, But trepidation of the spheares,
Though greater farre, is innoc it.
Dull sublunary lovers love
(Whose soule is sense) cannot tdmit Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it. But we by a love, so much refin'd,
That our selves know not what it is, Inter-assured of the mind,
Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse. Our two soules therefore, which are one,
Though I must goe, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate. If they be two, they are two so
As stiffe twin compasses are two, Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other doe. And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth rome, It leanes, and hearkens after it,
And growes erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th'other foot, obliquely runne; Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne.
John Donne

X
THE SUNNE RISING
Busie old foole unruly Sunne, Why dost thou thus, Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chideo - dviĉoLate schoole boyes, and Sowre prentices, Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride, Call countrey ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme, Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.
Thy beames, so reverend, and strong Why shouldst thou thinke? I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke, But that I would not lose her sight so long: If her eyes have not blinded thine, | Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee, Whether both the India's of spice and Mynes Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee. Ask for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.
She' is all States, and all Princes, I, Nothing else is. Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this, All honor's mimigue: All wealth alchimie
Thou sunne art halfe as happy” as weet, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee To warme the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art every where; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.
John Donne

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X
DEATH BE NOT PROUD, THOUGH SOME HAVE CALLED THEE
Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for thou art not so, For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee doe goe, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sici nesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then; One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
John Donne
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X
BATTER MY HEART, THREE PERSOND GOD; FOR, YOU
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new. I, like an usurpt towne, to 'another due, Labour to 'admit you, but Oh, to no end, Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend. But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely I love you, and would be loved faine. But am betroth'd unto your enemie: Q Divorce mee, 'untie, or breake that knot againe; Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free, Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.`

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19
X
THE PORTRAT OF ACHITOPHEL
FROM “ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL’’’
Of these the false Achitophel was first, A name to all succeeding Ages curst. For close Designs and crooked Counsels fit. Sagacious, Bold, and Turbulent of wit, Restless, unfixt in Principles and Place, In Pow'r unpleased, impatient of Disgrace; A fiery Soul, which working out its way, Fretted the Pigmy Body to decay: And o'r informed the Tenement of Clay. A daring Pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the Danger, when the Waves
went high. He sought the Storms; but, for a Calm unfit, Would Steer too nigh the Sands to boast his Wit. Great Wits are sure to Madness near alli'd And thin Partitions do their Bounds divide; Else, why should he, with Wealth and Honour blest, Refuse his Age the needful hours of Rest? Punish a Body which he could not please, Bankrupt of Life, yet Prodigal{{ Ease?
John Dryden

ΧΙΙΙ
THE PORTRAT OF ZIMR
FROM “ABSALOM AND ACHITOPHEL’’’
Some of their Chiefs were Princes of the Land; . In the first Rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankind’s Epitome. Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and Nothing long: But, in the course of one revolving Moon, Was Chymist, Fidler, States-man, and
Buffoon; Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming.
Drinking, Besides ten thousand Freaks that died in
thinking. Blest Madman, who coud every hour employ, With something New to wish, or to enjoy! Raiting and praising, were his usual Theams; And both (to shew his Judgement) in Extreams: So over Violet, or over Civil That every Man, with him, was God or Devil. In squandring Wealth was his peculiar Art; Nothiag went unrewarded but Desert. Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too
late: He had hisJest, and they had his Estate.
John Dryden
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XIV
THE PORTRAIT OF OG
FROM “ABSALOM AND A HITOPHEL' "
Now stop your noses Readers all and some, For here’s a tum: cf Midnight work to come. Og from a Treason Tavern rolling home. Round as a Globe, and Liquored ev'ry chink. Goodly and Great he Sails behind his link; With all his Bulk there's nothing lost in Og. For ev'ry inch that is not Fool is Rogue: A Monstrous mass of foul corrupted matter. As all the Devils had spew'd to take the
batter. When wine has given him courag, to Blaspheme, He curses God, but God before (urst him; And if man could have reason, none has
OC. That made his Paunch so rich and him so poor. With wealth he was not trusted, for Heav'n knew What 'twas of Old to pamper up a Jew; To what would he on Quail and Pheasant
swell, That ev'n on Tripe and Carrion cou'd rebel? But though Heaven made him poor, (with
rev'rence speaking), He never was a Poet of God's making; The Midwife laid her hand on his Thick
Skull, With this Prophetick blessing - Be thou Dull Drink, Swear, and Roar, forbear no lew'd
delight Fit for thy Bulk, doe anything but write. Thou art of lasting Make, like thoughtless
11611 A strong Nativity-but for the Pen; Eat Opium mingle Arsenick in thy Drink. Still thou mayst live avoiding Pen and Ink. I see, I see, 'tis Counsel given in vain. For Treason botcht in Rhime will be thy bane; Rhime is the Rock on which thou art to wreck "Tis fatal to thy Fame and to thy Neck.
John Dryden

XV
1. WANDERED LONELY AS A COUD
I wandered lonely as a cloud عبر
That floats on high o'er vales and hills. When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the Stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way. They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw II at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves besides them danced, but they
Out-did the sparking waves in glee:- A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company I gazed - and gazed - but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude; , And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.
Williann Wordsworth
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XV
SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS
8
She dwelt annong the untrodden ways
Beside the springs ofDove.
A Maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye
Fair as a star, when only one is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me
VWilliam Wordsworthr

XVI
EARTH HAS NOT ANYTHING TO SHOW MORE
FAIR
Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight So touching in its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still
William Wordsworth

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XVIII
THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself: Stop here, or gently pass! Alone sings a melancholy strain; O listen for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands: Of travellers in some shady haunt. Among the Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird. Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay. Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?
What'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending: I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; I listened, motionless and still; And as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.
William Wordsworth

XX
A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL
A slumber did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; , , Rolled round in earth's diurnal course. With rocks, and stones, and trees.
William Wordsworth
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Lo! sweeten’d with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All is allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, 3፩ Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone, Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful
ᏫalᏚe .
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray: To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory. With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd.change: . For surely now our household hearts are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death. Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long Labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wards, And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
But, propp'd on beds of amaranth and molyHow sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropp'd eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill - To hear the hewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine - To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Conly to hear were Sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust
is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge
was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains
in the Sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined Qn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl’d Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly
curl’d Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming
world:
23

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Where they Smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps
and fiery sands, Changing fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships,
and'praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer - some, ’tis whisper'd -
down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, Surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and
Oar;
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.
Lord Tennyson
:24

XX
TITHIONUS
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground. Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath. And after many a summer dies the Swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms. Here at the quiet limit of the world, A White-haird shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas for this grey shadow, once a manSo glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd To his great heart none other than a God I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality'. Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills. And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me, And tho” they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth. Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, tho’ even now. Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?
A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure. And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team,

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Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes. And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.
Lo! ever thus thougrowest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? 'The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts'.
Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch - if I be he that watch'd - The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet. Like that strange song I hear Apollo sing. Why Ilion like a mist rose into towers.
Yet hold me not for cver in thine East: How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rosy shadows batheme, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy burrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground; Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave: Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn: earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
I.ord Tennyson

XXI
CROSSING THE BAR
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call or me! Y
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too fuil for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep.
Turns again hone.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark
And may there be no sadness of farewell.
When I embark:
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.
Lord Tennyson
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XXIII
PRELUDES
The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways, Six o clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps, And then the lighting of the lamps.
The morning comes to consciousness Offaint statle Smells of beer From the sawdust-trampled street With all its muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands. With the other masquerades That time resumes, One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms.
You tossed a blanket from the bed, You lay upon your back, and waited; You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling And when all the world came back And the light crept up between the shutters And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, You had such a vision of the street As the street hardly understands; Sitting along the bed's edge, where

You curled the papers from your hair. (Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands.
V
His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block, Cor trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o'clock; And short square fingers stuffing pipes. And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties, The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh
The worlds revolve like ancient women Cathering fuel in vacant lots.
T. S. Eliot
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ΧΧΙV
MORNING AT THE WINDOW
They are rattling breakfast plates in basement kitchens. And along the trampled edges of the street I am aware of the damp souls of housemaids Sprouting despondently at area gates.
The brown waves of fog toss up to me Twisted faces from the bottom of the street, And tear from a passer-by with muddy skirts An aimless smile that hovers in the air And vanishes along the level of the roofs.
T. S. Eliot
30

XXV
LA FIGLIA CHIE PIANGE (O quam te memorem virgo......... )
Stand on the highest pavement of the stair - Lean on a garden urnWeave, weave the sunlight in your hair - Clasp your flowers to you. With a pained surpriseFling them to the ground and turn With a fugitive resentment in your eyes; But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
So I would have had him leave, So I would have had her stand and grieve, So he would have left As the Soul leaves the body torn and bruised, As the mind deserts the body it has used. I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft. Some way we both should understand Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.
She turned away but with the autumn weather Compelled my imagination many days, Many days and many hours; Her hair over her arm and her arm full of flowers And I wonder how they should have been together I should have lost a gesture and a pose. Sometimes these cogitations still amaze The troubled midnight and the noon's repose.
T. S. Eliot
S

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XXVII
JOURNEY OF THE MAGI
“A çold coming we haci ofit Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways decp and the Weather sharp. The very dead of winter'. And the cannels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the Silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling And running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters. And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night. Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the
darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we carne to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel. Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver. And feet kicking the empty wine-skins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place: it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and
death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.
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