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When I came back again； but there they stood；
As in the days they dreamed of when young blood
Was in their cheeks and women called them fair。
Be sure； they met me with an ancient air；
And yes； there was a shop…worn brotherhood
About them； but the men were just as good；
And just as human as they ever were。
And you that ache so much to be sublime；
And you that feed yourselves with your descent；
What comes of all your visions and your fears？
Poets and kings are but the clerks of Time；
Tiering the same dull webs of discontent；
Clipping the same sad alnage of the years。
Fleming Helphenstine
At first I thought there was a superfine
Persuasion in his face； but the free glow
That filled it when he stopped and cried； 〃Hollo！〃
Shone joyously； and so I let it shine。
He said his name was Fleming Helphenstine；
But be that as it may； I only know
He talked of this and that and So…and…So；
And laughed and chaffed like any friend of mine。
But soon； with a queer； quick frown； he looked at me；
And I looked hard at him； and there we gazed
With a strained shame that made us cringe and wince：
Then； with a wordless clogged apology
That sounded half confused and half amazed；
He dodged； and I have never seen him since。
For a Book by Thomas Hardy
With searching feet； through dark circuitous ways；
I plunged and stumbled； round me； far and near；
Quaint hordes of eyeless phantoms did appear；
Twisting and turning in a bootless chase；
When； like an exile given by God's grace
To feel once more a human atmosphere；
I caught the world's first murmur； large and clear；
Flung from a singing river's endless race。
Then； through a magic twilight from below；
I heard its grand sad song as in a dream：
Life's wild infinity of mirth and woe
It sang me； and； with many a changing gleam；
Across the music of its onward flow
I saw the cottage lights of Wessex beam。
Thomas Hood
The man who cloaked his bitterness within
This winding…sheet of puns and pleasantries；
God never gave to look with common eyes
Upon a world of anguish and of sin：
His brother was the branded man of Lynn；
And there are woven with his jollities
The nameless and eternal tragedies
That render hope and hopelessness akin。
We laugh； and crown him； but anon we feel
A still chord sorrow…swept； a weird unrest；
And thin dim shadows home to midnight steal；
As if the very ghost of mirth were dead
As if the joys of time to dreams had fled；
Or sailed away with Ines to the West。
The Miracle
〃Dear brother； dearest friend； when I am dead；
And you shall see no more this face of mine；
Let nothing but red roses be the sign
Of the white life I lost for him；〃 she said；
〃No； do not curse him； pity him instead；
Forgive him！ forgive me！ 。 。 God's anodyne
For human hate is pity； and the wine
That makes men wise； forgiveness。 I have read
Love's message in love's murder； and I die。〃
And so they laid her just where she would lie；
Under red roses。 Red they bloomed and fell；
But when flushed autumn and the snows went by；
And spring came； lo； from every bud's green shell
Burst a white blossom。 Can love reason why？
Horace to Leuconoe
I pray you not； Leuconoe； to pore
With unpermitted eyes on what may be
Appointed by the gods for you and me；
Nor on Chaldean figures any more。
'T were infinitely better to implore
The present only： whether Jove decree
More winters yet to come； or whether he
Make even this； whose hard； wave…eaten shore
Shatters the Tuscan seas to…day； the last
Be wise withal； and rack your wine； nor fill
Your bosom with large hopes； for while I sing；
The envious close of time is narrowing；
So seize the day； or ever it be past；
And let the morrow come for what it will。
Reuben Bright
Because he was a butcher and thereby
Did earn an honest living （and did right）；
I would not have you think that Reuben Bright
Was any more a brute than you or I；
For when they told him that his wife must die；
He stared at them； and shook with grief and fright；
And cried like a great baby half that night；
And made the women cry to see him cry。
And after she was dead； and he had paid
The singers and the sexton and the rest；
He packed a lot of things that she had made
Most mournfully away in an old chest
Of hers； and put some chopped…up cedar boughs
In with them； and tore down the slaughter…house。
The Altar
Alone； remote； nor witting where I went；
I found an altar builded in a dream
A fiery place； whereof there was a gleam
So swift； so searching； and so eloquent
Of upward promise； that love's murmur； blent
With sorrow's warning； gave but a supreme
Unending impulse to that human stream
Whose flood was all for the flame's fury bent。
Alas！ I said； the world is in the wrong。
But the same quenchless fever of unrest
That thrilled the foremost of that martyred throng
Thrilled me； and I awoke 。 。 。 and was the same
Bewildered insect plunging for the flame
That burns； and must burn somehow for the best。
The Tavern
Whenever I go by there nowadays
And look at the rank weeds and the strange grass；
The torn blue curtains and the broken glass；
I seem to be afraid of the old place；
And something stiffens up and down my face；
For all the world as if I saw the ghost
Of old Ham Amory； the murdered host；
With his dead eyes turned on me all aglaze。
The Tavern has a story； but no man
Can tell us what it is。 We only know
That once long after midnight； years ago；
A stranger galloped up from Tilbury Town；
Who brushed； and scared； and all but overran
That skirt…crazed reprobate； John Evereldown。
Sonnet
Oh for a poet for a beacon bright
To rift this changeless glimmer of dead gray；
To spirit back the Muses； long astray；
And flush Parnassus with a newer light；
To put these little sonnet…men to flight
Who fashion； in a shrewd； mechanic way；
Songs without souls； that flicker for a day；
To vanish in irrevocable night。
What does it mean； this barren age of ours？
Here are the men； the women； and the flowers；
The seasons； and the sunset； as before。
What does it mean？ Shall not one bard arise
To wrench one banner from the western skies；
And mark it with his name forevermore？
George Crabbe
Give him the darkest inch your shelf allows；
Hide him in lonely garrets； if you will；
But his hard； human pulse is throbbing still
With the sure strength that fearless truth endows。
In spite of all fine science disavows；
Of his plain excellence and stubborn skill
There yet remains what fashion cannot kill；
Though years have thinned the laurel from his brows。
Whether or not we read him； we can feel
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