Poets From England

"I saw faire Cloris walke alone Where feather’d rayne came softly downe, And Jove descended from his tower To court her in a silver shower; The wanton snowe flewe to her breast Like little birds into their nest, And overcome with whiteness there For griefe it thaw’d into a teare, Thence falling on her garment’s hemme For greife it freez’d into a gemme."

"My love and I for kisses play'd, Shee would keepe stake, I was content, But when I wonne shee would be paid; This made mee aske her what she meant. Pray, since I see (quoth she) your wrangling vayne, Take your owne kisses, give me myne againe.'"

"What thing is that, nor felt nor seene Till it bee given? a present for a Queene: A fine conceite to give and take the like: The giver yet is farther for to seeke; The taker doth possesse nothing the more, The giver hee hath nothing lesse in store: And given once that nature hath it still, You cannot keepe or leave it if you will: The workmanshippe is counted very small, The labour is esteemèd naught at all: But to conclude, this gift is such indeede, That, if some see’t twill make theyr hearts to bleede."

"Be silent you still musique of the Sphears, And every sense make haste to be all ears, And give devout attention to her aires, To which the Gods doe listen as to prayers Of pious votaries; the which to heare Tumult would be attentive, and would swear To keep lesse noise at Nile, if there she sing, Or with a happy touch grace but the string. Among so many auditors, so many throng Of Gods and men that presse to hear her songs, O let me have an unespied room, And die with such an anthem ore my tomb."

"See how the Rainbow in the skie Seems gaudy through the Suns bright eye; Harke how an Eccho answere makes, Feele how a board is smooth’d with waxe, Smell how a glove putts on perfume, Tast how theyr sweetnesse pills assume: So by imputed Justice, Clay Seemes faire, well spoke, smooth, sweet, each way. The eye doth gaze on robes appearing, The prompted Eccho takes our hearing, The board our touch, the sent our smell, The pill our tast: Man, God as well."

"I know no paynt of poetry Can mend such colourd Imag’ry In sullen inke: yet Fayrford, I May relish thy fayre memory. Such is the Ecchoes faynter sound, Such is the light when sunne is drownd; So did the fancy looke upon The worke before it was begunne: Yet when those shewes are out of sight My weaker colours may delight. Those Images so faythfully Report true feature to the eye As you may thinke each picture was Some visage in a looking-glasse; Not a glasse-window face, unlesse Such as Cheapside hath: where a presse Of paynted gallants looking out Bedecke the Casement round about: But these have holy physnomy: Each pane instructs the Laity With silent eloquence: for here Devotion leads the eye, not eare, To note the catechising paynt, Whose easy phrase doth so acquaint Our sense with Gospell that the Creede In sucha hand the weake may reade: Such types even yet of vertue bee, And Christ, as in a glasse wee see. Behold two turtles in one cage, With such a lovely equipage, As they who knew them long may doubt Some yong ones have bin stollen out. When with a fishing rodde the clarke Saint Peters draught of fish doth marke, Such is the scale, the eye, the finne, Youd thinke they strive and leape within; But if the nett, which holds them breake, Hee with his angle some would take. But would you walke a turne in Pauls? Looke uppe; one little pane inroules A fayrer temple: fling a stone The Church is out o’ the windowes throwne. Consider, but not aske your eyes, And ghosts at midday seeme to rise: The Saynts there, striving to descend, Are past the glasse, and downward bend. Looke there! The Divell! all would cry Did they not see that Christ was by: See where he suffers for thee: see His body taken from the Tree: Had ever death such life before? The limber corps, besullyd ore With meager palenesse, doth display A middle state twixt Flesh and Clay: His armes and leggs, his head and crowne, Like a true Lambskinne dangling downe, Who can forbeare, the Grave being nigh, To bring fresh oyntment in his eye? The wondrous art hath equall fate, Unfencd and yet unviolate: The Puritans were sure deceivd, And thought those shadowes movde and heavde, So held from stoning Christ: the winde And boystrous tempests were so kinde As on his Image not to prey, Whom both the winds and seas obey. At Momus wish bee not amazd; For if each Christian heart were glazde With such a window, then each breast Might bee his owne Evangelist."

"Weep not because this childe hath dyed so yong, But weepe because yourselves have livde so long: Age is not fild by growth of time, for then What old man lives to see th’ estate of men? Who sees the age of grande Methusalem? Ten years make us as old as hundreds him. Ripenesse is from ourselves: and then wee dye When nature hath obteynde maturity. Summer and winter fruits there bee, and all Not at one time, but being ripe, must fall. Death did not erre: your mourners are beguilde; She dyed more like a mother than a childe. Weigh the composure of her pretty partes: Her gravity in childhood; all her artes Of womanly behaviour; weigh her tongue So wisely measurde, not too short nor long; And to her youth adde some few riches more, She tooke upp now what due was at threescore. She livde seven years, our age’s first degree; Journeys at first time ended happy bee; Yet take her stature with the age of man, They well are fitted: both are but a span."

"When Westwell Downes I gan to tread, Where cleanely wynds the greene did sweepe, Methought a landskipp there was spread, Here a bush and there a sheepe: The pleated wrinkles of the face Of wave-swolne earth did lend such grace, As shadowings in Imag’ry Which both deceive and please the eye.The sheepe sometymes did tread the maze By often wynding in and in, And sometymes round about they trace Which milkmayds call a Fairie ring: Such semicircles have they runne, Such lynes acrosse so trymly spunne That sheppeards learne whenere they please A new Geometry with ease.The slender food upon the downe Is allwayes even, allwayes bare, Which neither spring nor winter’s frowne Can ought improve or ought impayre: Such is the barren Eunuches chynne, Which thus doth evermore begynne With tender downe to be orecast Which never comes to haire at last.Here and there twoe hilly crests Amiddst them hug¢g a pleasant greene, And these are like twoe swelling breasts That close a tender fall betweene. Here would I sleepe, or read, or pray From early morne till flight of day: But harke! a sheepe-bell calls mee upp, Like Oxford colledge bells, to supp."

"How poor remembrances are statues, tombs, And other monuments that men erect To princes, which remain in closèd rooms Where but a few behold them, in respect Of Books, that to the universal eye Show how they lived; the other where they lie!"

"England is the paradise of women, the purgatory of men, and the hell of horses."

"Returne my joyes, and hither bring A tongue not made to speake but sing, A jolly spleene, an inward feast, A causelesse laugh without a jest, A face which gladnesse doth anoynt, An arm that springs out of his joynt, A sprightfull gate that leaves no print, And makes a feather of a flint, A heart that’s lighter than the ayre, An eye still dancing in his spheare, Strong mirth which nothing can controule, A body nimbler than the soule, Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse Which thinke on all things, nothing choose, Which ere we see them come are gone; These life itselfe doth feede upon."

"Since honour from the honourer proceeds, How well do they deserve that memorize And leave in Books, for all posterities The names of worthies and their virtuous deeds."

"If Hercules tall stature might bee guest But by his thumbe, wherby to make the rest In due proportion; the best rule that I Would choose to measure Venus’ beauty by Should bee her legg and foot. If husbandmen Measure theyr timber by the foot, why then Not we our wives? Whether wee goe or stride Those native compasses are seldome wide Of telling true: the round and slender foot Is a sure index, and a secrett note Of hidden parts; and well this way may lead Unto the closett of a maydenheade: Here, Emblemes of our youth, we roses tye, And here the garter, love’s deare mystery: For want of beauty here the peacock’s pride Letts fall her trayne, and fearing to bee spide Shutts upp her paynted witnesses to lett Those eyes from view which are but counterfett. Who looks not if this part be good or evill May meet with cloven feet and match the divell, For this doth make the difference betweene The more unhallowed creatures and the cleane, Well may you judge her other stepps are lighte, Her thoughts awry that doth not tread aright: But then there’s true perfection when wee see Those parts more absolute that hidden bee: Nature nere layd a fayre foundation For an unworthy frame to rest upon. Lett others view the topp and limbes throughout, The deeper knowledge is to know the roote: And reading of the face the weakest know, What beauty is; the learned looke below; Who, looking there, doe all the rest, descrie As in a poole the moon we use to spie: Pardon (sweetehart) the pride of my desire If but to kisse your toe it should aspire."

"Strange beauty, eight-limbed and eight-handed, Whence camest to dazzle our eyes? With thy bosom bespangled and banded With the hues of the seas and the skies; Is thy home European or Asian, O mystical monster marine? Part molluscous and partly crustacean, Betwixt and between.Wast thou born to the sound of sea trumpets? Hast thou eaten and drunk to excess Of the sponges—thy muffins and crumpets, Of the seaweed—thy mustard and cress? Wast thou nurtured in caverns of coral, Remote from reproof or restraint? Art thou innocent, art thou immoral, Sinburnian or Saint?Lithe limbs, curling free, as a creeper That creeps in a desolate place, To enroll and envelop the sleeper In a silent and stealthy embrace, Cruel beak craning forward to bite us, Our juices to drain and to drink, Or to whelm us in waves of Cocytus, Indelible ink!O breast, that ’twere rapture to writhe on! O arms ’twere delicious to feel Clinging close with the crush of the Python, When she maketh her murderous meal! In thy eight-fold embraces enfolden, Let our empty existence escape, Give us death that is glorious and golden, Crushed all out of shape!Ah! thy red lips, lascivious and luscious, With death in their amorous kiss, Cling round us, and clasp us, and crush us, With bitings of agonised bliss; We are sick with the poison of pleasure, Dispense us the potion of pain; Ope thy mouth to its uttermost measure And bite us again!"

"June with her glancing grasses, June with a smiling sky, June, brown as the country lasses Or wings of the dragon-fly!The mown hay lies like sedges Or weed of the seashore strewn; Abrim with corn to the hedges The fields are filled in June."

"Love that fills the firmament with glory!— All the world knew this, but now I know it; Last have proved the eternal story And in song will shew it, All to gain, if you shall deign Me to be your poet.O divinest Heavenly Aphrodite, Here on earth incarnate I behold you, Lovelier, more serene and mighty Than my lips have told you, Far beyond my dreamings fond In my arms to fold you.You it was knew where the sweet flowers haunted; I could praise them found, but you could find them; I with studious art unvaunted Have in garlands twined them, And as due bring here to you On your brows to bind them.Take the worship, and with grace in guerdon Still for me new flower-abodes discover, That my song may keep its burden, There is nought above her; I, denied her breast, abide Her devoutest lover."

"Sometimes the original may have to wait until there is a vessel to transfer it into."

"Straight and swift the swallows fly To the sojourn of the sun; All the golden year is done, All the flower-time flitted by; Thro’ the boughs the witch-winds sigh; But heart’s summer is begun; Life and love at last are one; Love-lights glitter in the sky. Summer days were soon outrun With the setting of the sun; Love’s delight is never done. Let the turn-coat roses die; We are lovers, Love and I; In Love’s lips my roses lie."

"About a well-spring, in a little mead, Of tender grasses full and flow’rets fair, There sat three youngling angels as it were Their loves recounting; and for each, indeed, Her sweet face shaded, ’gainst the noonday need, A spray of green, that bound her golden hair; Whilst, in and out by turns, a frolic air The two clear colours blended at its heed.And one, after a little, thus heard I Say to her mates, ‘Lo, if by chance there lit The lovers of each one of us hereby, Should we flee hence for fear or quiet sit?’ Whereto the twain made answer, ‘Who should fly From such a fortune sure were scant of wit.’"

"The Life, Poetry and Letters of Ebenezer Elliott, ed. John Watkins (1850)"

"‘Prepare to meet the King of Terrors,’ cried To prayerless Want, his plunderer ferret-eyed: ‘I am the King of Terrors,’ Want replied."

"Lily on liquid roses floating— So floats yon foam o’er pink champagne— Fain would I join such pleasant boating, And prove that ruby main, And float away on wine!Those seas are dangerous, greybeards swear— Whose sea-beach is the goblet’s brim; And true it is—they drown old Care, But what care we for him, So we but float on wine! And true it is—they cross in pain, Who sober cross the Stygian ferry; But only make our —champagne, And we shall cross right merry, Floating away on wine!Old ’s self shall make him mellow, Then gaily row his boat from shore; While we, and every jovial fellow, Hear—unconcerned—the oar, That dips itself in wine!"

"More Verse and Prose by the Cornlaw Rhymer, ed. John Watkins (1850)"

"What is a communist? One who hath yearnings For equal division of unequal earnings: Idler, or bungler, or both, he is willing To fork out his penny and pocket your shilling."

"Here in the country’s heart Where the grass is green, Life is the same sweet life As it e’er hath been.Trust in a God still lives, And the bell at morn Floats with a thought of God O’er the rising corn.God comes down in the rain, And the crop grows tall— This is the country faith, And the best of all."

"Soft speech Provençal under the olives! Like a queen’s raiment from days long perish’d, Breathing aromas of old unremember’d Perfumes and shining in dust-cover’d places With sudden hints of forgotten splendour— So on the lips of the peasant his language, His only now, the tongue of the peasant."

"No common soul dwelt within that lifeless form: a vast knowledge, a rare wisdom, a rich experience, a devout trust, are plunged into the unfathomable night, and hidden from our eyes."

"I wish to record the continuance, or rather the increase, of my delight in the Unitarian Service. For a long time did I avoid going to Church, except to the Lord's Supper, because the service had grown intolerable to me. I now rejoice at the approach of Sunday. This very morning while at Chapel, I had the strongest and deepest conviction that I had never witnessed anything so really sublime as the whole worship in which I was joining. I can also attest the admirable behaviour of the Congregation. There is a marked attention on all sides. In a word, the whole service is a reality. I heartily thank God for having been made acquainted with the Unitarian Worship. I have seen nothing superior, nor even equal to it."

"Mysterious night, when the first man but knew Thee by report, unseen, and heard they name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo! creation widened on his view! Who could have thought what darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, oh Sun? Or who could find, Whil’st fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such endless orbs thou mad’st us blind? Weak man! Why to shun death, this anxious strife? If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?"

"Where glossy pebbles pave the varied floors, And rough flint-walls are deck'd with shells and ores, And silvery pearls, spread o'er the roofs on high, Glimmer like faint stars in a twilight sky."

"I hate that drum’s discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To sell their liberty for charms Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms; And when Ambition’s voice commands, To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands. I hate that drum’s discordant sound, Parading round, and round, and round: To me it talks of ravag’d plains, And burning towns, and ruin’d swains, And mangled limbs, and dying groans, And widows’ tears, and orphans’ moans; And all that Misery’s hand bestows, To fill the catalogue of human woes."

"There spread the wild rose, there the woodbine twin'd; There stood green fern, there o'er the grassy ground Sweet camomile and ale-hoof spread around; And centaury red, and yellow cinquefoil grew, And scarlet campion and cyanus blue; And tufted thyme, and marjoram's purple bloom, And ruddy strawberries yielding rich perfume."

"[N]one but a poet could have made such a garden."

"In myriad swarms, each summer sun An insect nation shows; Whose being, since he rose, begun; And e’er he sets will close.Brief is their date, confin’d their pow’rs, The fluttering of a day;— Yet life’s worth living, ev’n for hours, When all those hours—are play."

"A Fool and Knave, with different views, For Julia’s hand apply: The Knave, to mend his fortune sues: The Fool, to please his eye.Ask you, how JULIA will behave? Depend on’t for a rule, If she’s a Fool, she’ll wed the Knave— If she’s a Knave, the Fool."

"There are strong echoes of Powell and Waugh, but Hollinghurst's richly textured narrative and achingly evocative prose is masterful and his alone."

"Hollinghurst moves characters between background and foreground in different sections, meticulously picking up figures, information, ideas strewn earlier to shine a different light on past and present alike: the technique of staggered information, always a mainstay of narrative, has been fashioned into something altogether more transformative, more pointed. It is woven with stupendous deftness, its internal assonances making a complex, comprehensive harmony."

"Carrying both this comedy and the book's angry elegies is Hollinghurst's beautiful prose, which mixes the colloquial and the aesthetic to produce a language at once physical, lyrical and austere."

"When I first came here Hampstead Heath] I was starting my second novel, The Folding Star, which is a very twilight book, a time of day I've always loved. On those summer evenings when I set out on walks, I'd often end up on a bench here, analysing the changing light and the colours. There was a lot of pastoral poetry woven into that book; I think I was filling out an imaginary landscape based on the one in front of my house."

"[John Betjeman's] ability to make people laugh resounds through this book as persistently as church bells do through his poems."

"I was sent there Canford School] in 1967, at the age of thirteen, and at some point in my first year was issued with the OUP anthology Fifteen Poets: Chaucer to Arnold. This was my introduction to "Tintern Abbey", "Kubla Khan", Keats's Odes and many other poems which, read over and over, became and have remained a sort of inner music for me, whether purposely memorised or not. But the one of the fifteen who spoke most persuasively to my adolescent mind was Tennyson, in "The Lady of Shalott", "Ulysses" and the lyrics from The Princess; I won the junior reading competition with a passage from "Morte d’Arthur", making the most of the "sharp-smitten" clanging crags and "the long glories of the winter moon". Those effects, like many of Tennyson's best, are slightly over-orchestrated, a display of unrestrained assonantal genius, with a fascinating power of prickling the scalp, much treasured at that age, and for me never lost."

"Other reviewers have noted the strong overtones in Hollinghurst's novel of Proust as well as Evelyn Waugh and Anthony Powell, but there is a distinctly Jamesian aura that plays around the stressed and complex analogies The Line of Beauty proposes among social privilege, social transgression, economic ravenousness, and inviolable commitments to pleasures of various kinds and intensities."

"But though India was never thoroughly subdued by the sword of Islam, and though the country only became partially Mahomedan, yet the whole framework of her institutions was shaken and dislocated by incessant resistance. The Mahomedans disorganized Hinduism without substituting any strong religious edifice of their own, as they managed to do elsewhere. The military adventurers, who founded dynasties in Northern India and carved out kingdoms in the Deklian, cared little for things spiritual; most of them had, indeed, no time for proselytism, being continually engaged in conquest or in civil war."

"Therefore Aristotle is always telling us that Poetry is σπουδαιότερον καὶ φιλοσοφώτερον, is more general and abstracted, is led more by the Philosophy, the reason and nature of things, than History: which only records things higley, piglety, right or wrong as they happen."

"In the Neighing of an Horse, or in the growling of a Mastiff, there is a meaning, there is as lively expression, and, may I say, more humanity, than many time in the Tragical flights of Shakespear."

"This was a world in which only the ignorant could be happy."

"'She’s just a typical bourgeois reactionary.’ ‘You mean, her prejudices are different from yours.'"

"An age of chivalry as outmoded as honour, as obsolete as truth."

"Ignorance breeds fear. Tell people the truth. Trust them to keep their heads."

"War meant a perpetual postponement of life, yet one did not cease to grow old."