Poets From England

"Direct your eye right inward, and you'll find A thousand regions in your mind Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be Expert in home-cosmography."

"O that I were a veil upon that face, To hide it from the world; methinks I could Envy the very Sun, for gazing on you!"

"An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade. Cossack commanders cannonading come, Dealing destruction's devastating doom."

"Far worse unhappy D[iape]r succeeds, He search’d for coral, but he gather’d weeds."

"The Lamprey, glowing with uncommon Fires, The Earth-bred Serpents purfled Curls admires. He no less kind makes amorous Returns, With equal Love the grateful Serpent burns. Fixt on the Joy he bounding shoots along, Erects his azure Crest, and darts his forky Tongue. Now his red Eye-balls glow with doubled Fires; Proudly he mounts upon his folded Spires, Displays his glossy Coat, and speckled Side, And meets in all his Charms the wat’ry Bride. But lest he cautless might his Consort harm, The gentle Lover will himself disarm, Spit out the venom’d Mass, and careful hide In cranny’d Rocks, far from the washing Tide; There leaves the Furies of his noxious Teeth, And putrid Bags, the pois’nous Fund of Death. His Mate he calls with softly hissing Sounds; She joyful hears, and from the Ocean bounds. Swift as the bearded Arrow’d Hast she flies, To own her Love, and meet the Serpent’s Joys. At her approach, no more the Lover bears Odious Delay, nor sounding Waters fears. Onward he moves on shining Volumes roll’d, The Foam all burning seems with wavy Gold. At length with equal Hast the Lovers meet, And strange Enjoyments slake their mutual Heat. She with wide-gaping Mouth the Spouse invites, Sucks in his Head, and feels unknown Delights. When full Fruition has asswag’d Desire, Well-pleas’d the Bride will to her Home retire. Tir’d with the Strife the Serpent hies to Land, And leaves his Prints on all the furrow’d Sand; With anxious Fear seeks the close private Cleft, Where he in Trust th’important Secret left. From the stain’d Rock he sucks the pois’nous Heaps, Feels his returning Strength, and hissing leaps; With brandish’d Tongue the distant Foe defies, And darts new Light’nings from his Blood-shot Eyes. But if some Swain mean while observing spies Where odious Spume, and venom’d Spittle lies, And while the Serpent wooes, from neighb’ring Seas The cleansing Waters to the Rock conveys; The Serpent comes, and finds his Treasure gone, Looks sorrowing round, and blames the faithless Stone; Disarm’d no more his wonted Pleasure takes, Curls in the Grass, or hisses in the Brakes. He creeps with Shame a tawdry speckled Worm, And prides no longer in his beauteous Form. On the same Rock with Head reclin’d he lies, And, where he lost his Arms, despairing dies."

"Then from the teeming Filth, and putrid Heap, Like Summer Grubs, the little Slime-Fish creep. Devour'd by All the passive Curse they own, Opprest by ev'ry Kind, but injure none. Harmless they live, nor murd'rous Hunger know, But to themselves their mutual Pleasures owe; Each other lick, and the close Kiss repeat; Thus loving thrive, and praise the luscious Treat. When they in Throngs a safe Retirement seek, Where pointed Rocks the rising Surges break, Or where calm Waters in their Bason sleep, While chalky Cliffs o’erlook the shaded Deep, The Seas all gilded o’er the Shoal betray, And shining Tracks inform their wand’ring Way. As when soft Snows, brought down by Western Gales, Silent descend and spread on all the Vales; Add to the Plains, and on the Mountains shine, While in chang’d Fields the starving Cattle pine; Nature bears all one Face, looks coldly bright, And mourns her lost Variety in White, Unlike themselves the Objects glare around, And with false Rays the dazzled Sight confound: So, where the Shoal appears, the changing Streams Lose their Sky-blew, and shine with silver Gleams."

"Of Nature’s Chain how regular the Links! Matter by slow Gradations downward sinks; And intermediate Changes gently pass From lightsome Æther to the dullest Mass. Or climb by the same Steps from lumpish Clay To the bright Liquid, and the fine-spun Ray. Dissolving Earth in fluid Moisture glides, And Rocks transform’d flow down in silver Tides. Dilating Streams in vap’ry Columns rise, And sweating Seas will gild the distant Skies. Dispersing Clouds to nobler Forms aspire, Refine to Æther, or ferment to Fire. Things only differ as condense, or rare. Impurer Skies will thicken into Air; Air when too gross will falling Drops increase, And hang in lucid Pearls on weeping Trees. The glewy Substance, that no longer flows, Stagnates to Slime; and slimy Matter grows To earthly Mould; that hard’ning turns to Stone. So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One."

"I sing the Natives of the boundless Main, And tell what Kinds the wat'ry Depths contain. Thou, Mighty Prince, whom farthest Shores obey, Favour the Bard, and hear the humble Lay; While the Muse shows the liquid Worlds below, Where throng'd with busie Shoals the Waters flow; Their diff'ring Forms and Ways of Life relates; And sings their constant Loves, and constant Hates; What various Arts the finny Herds beguile, And each cold Secret of the Fishers Toil. Intrepid Souls! who pleasing Rest despise, To whirl in Eddies, and on Floods to rise; Who scorn the Safety of the calmer Shore, Drive thro' the working Foam, and ply the lab'ring Oar. Th' Abyss they fathom, search the doubtful Way, And through obscuring Depths pursue the Prey."

"The Hermit-Fish, unarm’d by Nature left, Helpless, and weak, grow strong by harmless Theft. Fearful they strowl, and look with panting Wish For the cast Crust of some new-cover’d Fish; Or such as empty lie, and deck the Shore, Whose first and rightful Owners are no more. They make glad Seizure of the vacant Room, And count the borrow’ d Shell their native Home; Screw their soft Limbs to fit the winding Case, And boldly herd with the Crustaceous Race. Careless they enter the first empty Cell; Oft find the plaited Wilk’s indented Shell; And oft the deep-dy’d Purple forc’d by Death To Stranger-Fish the painted Home bequeath. The Wilk’s etch’d Coat is most with Pleasure worn, Wide in Extent, and yet but lightly born. But when they growing more than fill the Place, And find themselves hard-pinch’d in scanty Space, Compell’d they quit the Roof they lov’d before, And busy search around the pebbly Shore, Till a commodious roomy Seat be found, Such as the larger Cockles living own’d. Oft cruel Wars contending Hermits wage, And long for the disputed Shell engage. The strongest will the doubtful Prize possess, Pow’r gives him Right, and All the Claim confess."

"Strange the Formation of the Eely Race, That know no Sex, yet love the close Embrace. Their folded Lengths they round each other twine, Twist am’rous Knots, and slimy Bodies joyn; Till the close Strife brings off a frothy Juice, The Seed that must the wriggling Kind produce. Regardless they their future Offspring leave, But porous Sands the spumy Drops receive. That genial Bed impregnates all the Heap, And little Eelets soon begin to creep. Half-Fish, Half-Slime they try their doubtful strength, And slowly trail along their wormy Length. What great Effects from slender Causes flow! Congers their Bulk to these Productions owe: The Forms which from the frothy Drop began, Stretch out immense, and eddy all the Main."

"The curate thinks you have no soul; I know that he has none."

"But in some canine Paradise Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,And quarters every plain and hill, Seeking its master... As for me This prayer at least the gods fulfill; That when I pass the flood and seeOld Charon by the Stygian coast Take toll of all the shades who land, Your little, faithful barking ghost May leap to lick my phantom hand."

"When I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Took me by the hand."

"Everything has a cause and the cause of anything is everything."

"The mind of the people is like mud, From which arise strange and beautiful things."

"How sweet is harmless solitude! What can its joys control? Tumults and noise may not intrude, To interrupt the soul."

"These rugged walls less grievous are to me, Than those bedeck'd with curious arras be T'a guilty conscience; to a wounded heart, A palace cannot palliate that smart: Tho' drunk with pleasure, dull with opiates, Some seem as senseless of their sad estates, Till on their dying-beds conscience awakes. But tho' the righteous be in bonds confin'd, They inwardly sweet satisfaction find."

"Modernity kills ghostly romance."

"The baronet, in his old age, had been cast up by his vices on the shores of melancholy; heavy-eyed, gray-haired, bent, he seemed to pass through life as in a dream."

"Anyone can prove anything except that anything’s worth proving."

"He was so disrespectful that it was believed that he spoke truth."

"Once more the music came. This time it was a dance of caprice, pelting along over the violin-strings, leaping, laughing, wanton. Again an illusion seemed to cross her eyes. An old king was watching her, a king with the sordid history of the exhaustion of pleasure written on his flaccid face. A hook-nosed courtier by his side settled the ruffles at his wrists and mumbled, Ravissant! Quel malheur que la vieillesse! It was a strange illusion. Faster and faster she sped to the music, stepping, spinning, pirouetting; the dance was light as thistle-down, fierce as fire, smooth as a rapid stream."

"The air seemed to be filled with the perfume of some bitter spice. Viola could fancy almost that she saw a smoldering campfire and heard far off the roar of some desolate wild beast. She let her long hair fall, raising the heavy strands of it in either hand as she moved slowly to the laden music. Slowly her body swayed with drowsy grace, slowly her satin shoes slid over the silver sand."

"Perhaps the prayer that is offered when the time for praying is over is more terribly pathetic than any other. Yet one might hesitate to say that this prayer was unanswered."

"On bitter nights in winter the moon called her and she came, when the breath was vapor, and the trees that circled her dancing-room were black, bare skeletons, and the frost was cruel."

"Outside everything was uncannily visible in the light of the full moon, but here in the dark shaded alleys the night was conscious of itself."

"In her fantastic mood she stretched her soft, clasped hands upward toward the moon. 'Sweet moon,' she said in a kind of mock prayer, 'make your white light come down in music into my dancing-room here, and I will dance most deliciously for you to see.' She flung her head backward and let her hands fall; her eyes were half closed, and her mouth was a kissing mouth. 'Ah! sweet moon,' she whispered, 'do this for me, and I will be your slave; I will be what you will.'"

"How madly she danced that night!"

"I shall leave this farm-house very soon. The people are all right, but they are people, and therefore insufferable."

"In 1992, almost 2,000 of the world's leading scientists presented us with another way of looking at the world. In , they informed us that the current trajectory of was unsustainable. ... ... Some of us see what is happening but have little ability to act. Others see something else entirely because maintaining the juggernaut of the and is the priority. For them, the does little but get in the way."

"As well as the human remains, the jawbone of a was unearthed at . Lynx became extinct in the UK about 1,800 years ago, but I found it exciting to think of these beautiful, lithe creatures roaming over my home landscape. There were the bones of a 7,000-year-old that had most likely been dragged up to the cave by an animal. And a short distance away, in fact just an arrow's flight from Kirkhead Tower, is , the place where the last wolf in England was reputedly killed. And although this idea might be fanciful (how on earth would anyone know where the very last wolf died anyway?), there's evidence of wolves right here on the doorstep. had been roaming northern Britain over 1,300 years ago and their bones were found in the cavern. They had been gnawed by a large predator. The most likely candidate? Wolf."

"The remains unambiguous, but still the fox hunts continue. Since the ban came into force more than ten years ago, I've seen — or more often heard — a number of hunts in progress. I've heard hounds in tracking rapidly across the open ground of the higher s, their baying echoing around the valley. Or down by the , men with s, turning to see who was driving past. Up here in , the hunt has always been on foot, but for all the lack of pomp and , and money, I still loathe it."

"Thousands of , , , , , and are being planted, to create habitats of indigenous – of tree cover and open grazing. A flickered along the prickly spine of the new fence built to separate the sheep from the trees. Further on, beyond a bank of glacial , the infant disappeared behind a drystone wall above what was once a but has become a dry ochre basin of ' grasses. Canalised in a previous century, the Mint is to be re-meandered to its original course through the valley bottom, and Dub Ings will become a tarn once more. Like the new trees, this work – done in partnership with and another local farm – is intended to lessen the effects of flooding on communities further downstream; the memory of is never far away."

"Whenever the mind of the artist suffers itself to be occupied, during its periods of creation, by any other predominant motive than the desire of beauty, the result is false in art."

"Ardua discenti nulla est, res nulla docenti Ardua; cum doceat fœmina, discat avis."

"Vernantem in campum mecum descende, novique Videris, ut surgat primula, veris honos. Dum populus circum cantat pennatus, amori Quam mecum ad Tuedam lenta vacare potes!"

"Concursus spectat, plateaque negotia in omni, Omnia pro nugis at sapienter habet. Clamores, quos infra audit, si forsitan audit, Pro rebus nihili negligit, et crocitat."

"I love the memory of Vinny Bourne. I think him a better Latin poet than Tibullus, Propertius, Ausonius, or any of the writers in his way, except Ovid, and not at all inferior to him."

"The Bee and Spider by a diverse power, Sucke Hony and Poyson from the selfe same flower."

"The Indian weed witherèd quite, Green at morn, cut down at night, Shows thy decay; All flesh is hay: Thus think, then drink Tobacco. And when the smoke ascends on high, Think thou behold'st the vanity Of worldly stuff, Gone with a puff: Thus think, then drink Tobacco."

"The loss of American what can repay? New colonies seek for at Botany Bay."

"Love is the gift that brings us nearer Heaven Than any other gift the world can hold, And perfect Love is nearest perfect bliss."

"Ah! "All things come to those who wait" — (I say these words to make me glad). But something answers soft and sad "They come, but often come too late!""

"The oftener seen, the more I lust, The more I lust, the more I smart, The more I smart, the more I trust, The more I trust, the heavier heart, The heavy heart breeds mine unrest; Thy absence, therefore, like I best."

"A thousand doltish geese we might have spared, A thousand witless heads death might have found, A taken them for whom no man had cared, And laid them low in deep oblivious ground: But fortune favors fool, as old men say, And lets them live, and takes the wise away."

"Give money me, take friendship whoso list For friends are gone come once adversity, When money yet remaineth safe in chest, That quickly can thee bring from misery. Fair face show friends when riches do abound; Come time of proof, farewell, they must away. Believe me well, they are not to be found If God but send thee once a lowering day. Gold never starts aside, but in distress, Finds ways enough to ease thine heaviness."

"The train ran like a struggling fish on an almost taut line; it jerked helplessly yet strongly from side to side; twitching and tugging, it was drawn through the rippling land towards the ruthless mountains."

""Well, Ipsie, all I can say is..." But she never said anything more, so perhaps that really was all she could say."

"Sometimes I think there are two kinds of people — the autobiographists and the biographists."

"Nearly everybody in San Francisco writes poetry. Few San Franciscans would admit this, but most of them would rather like to have their productions accidentally discovered."