THE WEEPEN LIADY. Whither the swans and turtles go, With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure. Be cut in marble; and withal, That I shall weep, though I be stone, For I would have thine image be ANDREW MARVELL. THE WEEPEN LIADY. WHEN liate o' nights, above the green, Her head's, a wa'ken to an' fro, In robes so white's the driven snow: Wi' oon yarm down, while oon da rest, O'thik poor weepen liady. THE WEEPEN LIADY. The whirdlen win' and whislen squall A liady, as the tiale da goo, That oonce lived there, an' loved too true, Wer by a young man cast azide : A mother zad, but not a bride; That she herzuf shood leave his door, "Let me be lost," she cried, "the while DRIFTING. Wi' grief that vew but she ha tried; An' she da keep a-comen on, Be they that can but live in love, Unlik the weepen liady! WILLIAM BARNES. DRIFTING. My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote: Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. DRIFTING. Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius' misty brim, With outstretched hands The gray smoke stands, O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay's deep breast at intervals, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled; DRIFTING. The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail : A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies; O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. |