Poem of the day-7: 'The Wish' by Abraham Cowley

WELL then! I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree.
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does of all meats the soonest cloy;
And they, methinks, deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd and buzz and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the city.

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave
May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!
And since love ne'er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as guardian angels are,
Only beloved and loving me.

O fountains! when in you shall I
Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
Thy happy tenant of your shade?
Here 's the spring-head of Pleasure's flood:
Here 's wealthy Nature's treasury,
Where all the riches lie that she
Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here
Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;
Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but Echo flatter.
The gods, when they descended, hither
From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say
That 'tis the way too thither.

Hoe happy here should I
And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude 35
In deserts solitude.
I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.

- Abraham Cowley. 1618–1667

Wikipedia article on "ABRAHAM COWLEY":
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abraham_Cowley

Grateful thanks to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.

Poem of the day-6: 'Daybreak'

Daybreak

A wind came up out of the sea,
And said, “O mists, make room for me.”
It hailed the ships, and cried: “Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone.”
And hurried landward far away,
Crying: “Awake! It is the day.”
It said unto the forest: “Shout!
Hang all your leafy banners out!”
It touched the woodbird’s folded wing,
And said: “O bird, awake and sing!”
And o’er the farms: “O chanticleer,
Your clarion blow: “the day is near.”
It whispered to the fields of corn:
“Bow down, and hail the coming morn.”
It shouted through the belfry tower:
“Awake, O bell, proclaim the hour!”
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh,
And said: “Not yet; in quiet lie.”

- H.W.Longfellow

Poem of the day-5: 'Gitanjali'

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where timeless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way;

Where the mind led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action -

Into that haven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

- Rabindranath Tagore

Poem of the day-4: 'Song of Myself' by Walt Whitman

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same,

I, now thirtyseven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,

Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,

I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,

Nature without check with original energy.

....

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,

And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,

Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,

Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

....

Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?

I listen to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots,

And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,

The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,

I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,

(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

....

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,

Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,

Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine,

One of the Nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same,

....

A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,

A novice beginning yet experiment of myriads of seasons,

Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,

A farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,

Prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

...

I am the poet of the Body and I am poet of the Soul,

The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me,

The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into a new tongue.

I am the poet of the woman the same as the man.

And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man,

And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.

....

Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son,

Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding,

No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them,

No more modest than immodest.

....

Whoever degrades another degrades me,

And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

....

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,

And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,

Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

(Selection from 'The Song of Myself' by Walt Whitman)