* ][ بكى القلم قبل ان تبكي عيوني ][ *

XXI

So is it not with me as with that Muse,

Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,

Who heaven itself for ornament doth use

And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,

Making a couplement of proud compare

With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,

With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,

That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.

O! let me, true in love, but truly write,

And then believe me, my love is as fair

As any mother's child, though not so bright

As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:

Let them say more that like of hearsay well;

I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

That have profaned their scarlet ornaments

And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,

Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.

Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those

Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,

Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

By self-example mayst thou be denied!

hed No Tear

*

Shed No Tea- oh, shed no tear !

The flower will bloom another year ;

Weep no more – oh , weep no more !

Young buds sleep in the root's white core .

Dry your eyes – oh , dry your eyes !

For I was taught in Paradise-

To ease my breast of melodies-

Shed no tear .

.

Overhead, look overhead

'Mong the blossoms white and red

Look up , look up –I flutter now

On this flush pomegranate bough.

See me - tis this silvery bill.

Ever cures the good man' s ill

Shed No Tea- oh, shed no tear !

The flower will bloom another year ;

Adieu , adieu – I fly , adieu ,

I vanish in the heavens 'blue .

Adieu , adieu !

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

II

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook;

Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watchest the last oozing hours by hours.

III

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

*

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high over vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd ,

A host , of golden daffodils ;

Beside the lake , beneath the trees,

Flutterring and dancing in the breeze .

.

Continuous as , the star that shine

And twinkle on the Milky way ,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay ;

Ten thousand saw I in a glance .

.

The waves beside them danced ; but they

Out-did the sparkling 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 dance with the daffodils .

**

TO A BUTTERFLY

STAY near me--do not take thy flight!

A little longer stay in sight!

Much converse do I find in thee,

Historian of my infancy!

Float near me; do not yet depart!

Dead times revive in thee:

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art!

A solemn image to my heart,

My father's family!

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days,

The time, when, in our childish plays,

My sister Emmeline and I

Together chased the butterfly!

A very hunter did I rush

Upon the prey:--with leaps and springs

I followed on from brake to bush;

But she, God love her, feared to brush

The dust from off its wings