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Our Favorite Poems - 3


The Rime of the Ancient Mariner



       by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

            PART ONE

     IT IS an ancient Mariner,
     And he stoppeth one of three.
     'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
     Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

     The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
     And I am next of kin;
     The guests are met, the feast is set:
     May'st hear the merry din.'

     He holds him with his skinny hand,
     'There was a ship,' quoth he.
     'Hold off!  unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
     Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

     He holds him with his glittering eye--
     The Wedding-Guest stood still,
     And listens like a three years' child:
     The Mariner hath his will.

     The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
     He cannot choose but hear;
     And thus spake on that ancient man,
     The bright-eyed Mariner.

     'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
     Merrily did we drop
     Below the kirk, below the hill,
     Below the lighthouse top.

     The Sun came up upon the left,
     Out of the sea came he!
     And he shone bright, and on the right
     Went down into the sea.

     Higher and higher every day,
     Till over the mast at noon--'
     The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
     For he heard the loud bassoon.

     The bride hath paced into the hall,
     Red as a rose is she;
     Nodding their heads before her goes
     The merry minstrelsy.

     The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
     Yet he cannot choose but hear;
     And thus spake on that ancient man,
     The bright-eyed Mariner.

     And now the Storm-blast came, and he
     Was tyrannous and strong:
     He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
     And chased us south along.

     With sloping masts and dipping prow,
     As who pursued with yell and blow
     Still treads the shadow of his foe,
     And forward bends his head,
     The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
     And southward aye we fled.

     And now there came both mist and snow,
     And it grew wondrous cold:
     And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
     As green as emerald.

     And through the drifts the snowy clifts
     Did send a dismal sheen:
     Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
     The ice was all between.

     The ice was here, the ice was there,
     The ice was all around:
     It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
     Like noises in a swound!

     At length did cross an Albatross,
     Thorough the fog it came;
     As if it had been a Christian soul,
     We hailed it in God's name.

     It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
     And round and round it flew.
     The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
     The helmsman steered us through!

     And a good south wind sprung up behind;
     The Albatross did follow,
     And every day, for food or play,
     Came to the mariners' hollo!

     In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
     It perched for vespers nine;
     Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
     Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

     'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
     From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
     Why look'st thou so?'--'With my cross-bow
     I shot the Albatross.'

          PART TWO

     THE Sun now rose upon the right:
     Out of the sea came he,
     Still hid in mist, and on the left
     Went down into the sea.

     And the good south wind still blew behind,
     But no sweet bird did follow,
     Nor any day for food or play
     Came to the mariners' hollo!

     And I had done a hellish thing,
     And it would work 'em woe:
     For all averred, I had killed the bird
     That made the breeze to blow.
     Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
     That made the breeze to blow!

     Nor dim nor red like God's own head,
     The glorious Sun uprist:
     Then all averred, I had killed the bird
     That brought the fog and mist.
     'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
     That bring the fog and mist.

     The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
     The furrow followed free;
     We were the first that ever burst
     Into that silent sea.

     Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
     'Twas sad as sad could be;
     And we did speak only to break
     The silence of the sea!

     All in a hot and copper sky,
     The bloody Sun, at noon,
     Right up above the mast did stand,
     No bigger than the Moon.

     Day after day, day after day,
     We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
     As idle as a painted ship
     Upon a painted ocean.

     Water, water, every where,
     And all the boards did shrink;
     Water, water, every where,
     Nor any drop to drink.

     The very deep did rot: O Christ!
     That ever this should be!
     Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
     Upon the slimy sea.

     About, about, in reel and rout
     The death-fires danced at night;
     The water, like a witch's oils,
     Burnt green, and blue and white.

     And some in dreams assur'ed were
     Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
     Nine fathom deep he had followed us
     From the land of mist and snow.

     And every tongue, through utter drought,
     Was withered at the root;
     We could not speak, no more than if
     We had been choked with soot.

     Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
     Had I from old and young!
     Instead of the cross, the Albatross
     About my neck was hung.

          PART THREE

     THERE passed a weary time. Each throat
     Was parched, and glazed each eye.
     A weary time! a weary time!
     How glazed each weary eye,
     When looking westward, I beheld
     A something in the sky.

     At first it seemed a little speck,
     And then it seemed a mist;
     It moved and moved, and took at last
     A certain shape, I wist.

     A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
     And still it neared and neared:
     As if it dodged a water-sprite,
     It plunged and tacked and veered.

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     We could nor laugh nor wail;
     Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
     I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
     And cried, A sail! a sail!

     With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
     Agape they heard me call:
     Gramercy! they for joy did grin
     And all at once their breath drew in,
     As they were drinking all.

     See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
     Hither to work us weal;
     Without a breeze, without a tide,
     She steadies with upright keel!

     The western wave was all a-flame.
     The day was well nigh done!
     Almost upon the western wave
     Rested the broad bright Sun;
     When that strange shape drove suddenly
     Betwixt us and the Sun.

     And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
     (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
     As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
     With broad and burning face.

     Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
     How fast she nears and nears!
     Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
     Like restless gossameres?

     Are those her ribs through which the Sun
     Did peer, as through a grate?
     And is that Woman all her crew?
     Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
     Is DEATH that woman's mate?

     Her lips were red, her looks were free,
     Her locks were yellow as gold:
     Her skin was as white as leprosy,
     The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
     Who thicks man's blood with cold.

     The naked hulk alongside came,
     And the twain were casting dice;
     'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'
     Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

     The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
     At one stride comes the dark;
     With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
     Off shot the spectre-bark.

     We listened and looked sideways up!
     Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
     My life-blood seemed to sip!
     The stars were dim, and thick the night,
     The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
     From the sails the dew did drip--
     Till clomb above the eastern bar
     The horn'ed Moon, with one bright star
     Within the nether tip.

     One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
     Too quick for groan or sigh,
     Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
     And cursed me with his eye.

     Four times fifty living men,
     (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
     With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
     They dropped down one by one.

     The souls did from their bodies fly,--
     They fled to bliss or woe!
     And every soul, it passed me by,
     Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

          PART FOUR

     'I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner!
     I fear thy skinny hand!
     And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
     As is the ribbed sea-sand.

     I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
     And thy skinny hand, so brown.'--
     Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
     This body dropt not down.

     Alone, alone, all, all alone,
     Alone on a wide wide sea!
     And never a saint took pity on
     My soul in agony.

     The many men, so beautiful!
     And they all dead did lie:
     And a thousand thousand slimy things
     Lived on; and so did I.

     I looked upon the rotting sea,
     And drew my eyes away
     I looked upon the rotting deck,
     And there the dead men lay

     I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray;
     But or ever a prayer had gusht,
     A wicked whisper came, and made
     My heart as dry as dust.

     I closed my lids, and kept them close,
     And the balls like pulses beat;
     For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
     Lay like a load on my weary eye,
     And the dead were at my feet.

     The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
     Nor rot nor reek did they:
     The look with which they looked on me
     Had never passed away.

     An orphan's curse would drag to hell
     A spirit from on high;
     But oh! more horrible than that
     Is the curse in a dead man's eye!
     Seven days, seven nights saw that curse,
     And yet I could not die.

     The moving Moon went up the sky,
     And no where did abide:
     Softly she was going up,
     And a star or two beside--

     Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
     Like April hoar-frost spread;
     But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
     The charm'ed water burnt alway
     A still and awful red.

     Beyond the shadow of the ship,
     I watched the water-snakes:
     They moved in tracks of shining white
     And when they reared, the elfish light
     Fell off in hoary flakes.

     Within the shadow of the ship
     I watched their rich attire:
     Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
     Then coiled and swam; and every track
     Was a flash of golden fire.

     O happy living things! no tongue
     Their beauty might declare:
     A spring of love gushed from my heart,
     And I blessed them unaware:
     Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
     And I blessed them unaware.

     The self-same moment I could pray;
     And from my neck so free
     The Albatross fell off, and sank
     Like lead into the sea.

          PART FIVE

     OH sleep! it is a gentle thing,
     Beloved from pole to pole!
     To Mary Queen the praise be given!
     She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
     That slid into my soul.

     The silly buckets on the deck,
     That had so long remained,
     I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
     And when I awoke, it rained.

     My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
     My garments all were dank;
     Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
     And still my body drank.

     I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
     I was so light--almost
     I thought that I had died in sleep,
     And was a bless'ed ghost.

     And soon I heard a roaring wind:
     It did not come anear;
     But with its sound it shook the sails,
     That were so thin and sere.

     The upper air burst into life!
     And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
     To and fro they were hurried about!
     And to and fro, and in and out,
     The wan stars danced between.

     And the coming wind did roar more loud,
     And the sails did sigh like sedge;
     And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
     The Moon was at its edge.

     The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
     The Moon was at its side:
     Like waters shot from some high crag,
     The lightning fell with never a jag,
     A river steep and wide.

     The loud wind never reached the ship,
     Yet now the ship moved on!
     Beneath the lightning and the Moon
     The dead men gave a groan.

     They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
     Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
     It had been strange, even in a dream,
     To have seen those dead men rise.

     The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
     Yet never a breeze up-blew;
     The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
     Where they were wont to do;
     They raised their limbs like lifeless tools--
     We were a ghastly crew.

     The body of my brother's son
     Stood by me, knee to knee:
     The body and I pulled at one rope,
     But he said nought to me.

     'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'
     Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
     'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
     Which to their corses came again,
     But a troop of spirits blest:

     For when it dawned--they dropped their arms,
     And clustered round the mast;
     Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
     And from their bodies passed.

     Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
     Then darted to the Sun;
     Slowly the sounds came back again,
     Now mixed, now one by one.

     Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
     I heard the sky-lark sing;
     Sometimes all little birds that are,
     How they seemed to fill the sea and air
     With their sweet jargoning!

     And now 'twas like all instruments,
     Now like a lonely flute;
     And now it is an angel's song,
     That makes the heavens be mute.

     It ceased; yet still the sails made on
     A pleasant noise till noon,
     A noise like of a hidden brook
     In the leafy month of June,
     That to the sleeping woods all night
     Singeth a quiet tune.

     Till noon we quietly sailed on,
     Yet never a breeze did breathe:
     Slowly and smoothly went the Ship,
     Moved onward from beneath.

     Under the keel nine fathom deep,
     From the land of mist and snow,
     The spirit slid: and it was he
     That made the ship to go.
     The sails at noon left off their tune,
     And the ship stood still also.

     The Sun, right up above the mast,
     Had fixed her to the ocean:
     But in a minute she 'gan stir,
     With a short uneasy motion--
     Backwards and forwards half her length
     With a short uneasy motion.

     Then like a pawing horse let go,
     She made a sudden bound:
     It flung the blood into my head,
     And I fell down in a swound.

     How long in that same fit I lay,
     I have not to declare;
     But ere my living life returned,
     I heard and in my soul discerned
     Two voices in the air.

     'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?
     By him who died on cross,
     With his cruel bow he laid full low
     The harmless Albatross.

     The spirit who bideth by himself
     In the land of mist and snow,
     He loved the bird that loved the man
     Who shot him with his bow.'

     The other was a softer voice,
     As soft as honey-dew:
     Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
     And penance more will do.'


          PART SIX

     First Voice

     'BUT tell me, tell me! speak again,
     They soft response renewing--
     What makes that ship drive on so fast?
     What is the ocean doing?'

     Second Voice

     'Still as a slave before his lord,
     The ocean hath no blast;
     His great bright eye most silently
     Up to the Moon is cast--

     If he may know which way to go;
     For she guides him smooth or grim.
     See, brother, see! how graciously
     She looketh down on him.'

     First Voice

     'But why drives on that ship so fast,
     Without or wave or wind?'

     Second Voice
     'The air is cut away before,
     And closes from behind.

     Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
     Or we shall be belated:
     For slow and slow that ship will go,
     When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

     I woke, and we were sailing on
     As in a gentle weather:
     'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
     The dead men stood together.

     All stood together on the deck,
     For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
     All fixed on me their stony eyes,
     That in the Moon did glitter.

     The pang, the curse, with which they died,
     Had never passed away:
     I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
     Nor turn them up to pray.

     And now this spell was snapt: once more
     I viewed the ocean green,
     And looked far forth, yet little saw
     Of what had else been seen--

     Like one, that on a lonesome road
     Doth walk in fear and dread,
     And having once turned round walks on,
     And turns no more his head;
     Because he knows, a frightful fiend
     Doth close behind him tread.

     But soon there breathed a wind on me,
     Nor sound nor motion made:
     Its path was not upon the sea,
     In ripple or in shade.

     It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
     Like a meadow-gale of spring--
     It mingled strangely with my fears,
     Yet it felt like a welcoming.

     Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
     Yet she sailed softly too:
     Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
     On me alone it blew.

     Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
     The light-house top I see?
     Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
     Is this mine own countree?

     We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
     And I with sobs did pray--
     O let me be awake, my God!
     Or let me sleep alway.

     The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
     So smoothly it was strewn!
     And on the bay, the moonlight lay,
     And the shadow of the Moon.

     The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
     That stands above the rock:
     The moonlight steeped in silentness
     The steady, weathercock.

     And the bay was white with silent light,
     Till rising from the same,
     Full many shapes, that shadows were,
     In crimson colours came.

     A little distance from the prow
     Those crimson shadows were:
     I turned my eyes upon the deck--
     Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

     Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
     And, by the holy rood!
     A man all light, a seraph-man,
     On every corse there stood.

     This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
     It was a heavenly, sight!
     They stood as signals to the land,
     Each one a lovely light;

     This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
     No voice did they impart--
     No voice; but oh! the silence sank
     Like music on my heart.

     But soon I heard the dash of oars,
     I heard the Pilot's cheer;
     My head was turned perforce away
     And I saw a boat appear.

     The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
     I heard them coming fast:
     Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
     The dead men could not blast.

     I saw a third-I heard his voice:
     It is the Hermit good!
     He singeth loud his godly hymns
     That he makes in the wood.
     He'll shrieve my soul he'll wash away
     The Albatross's blood.

          PART SEVEN

     THIS Hermit good lives in that wood
     Which slopes down to the sea.
     How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
     He loves to talk with marineres
     That come from a far countree.

     He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve--
     He hath a cushion plump:
     It is the moss that wholly hides
     The rotted old oak-stump.

     The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
     'Why, this is strange, I trow!
     Where are those lights so many and fair,
     That signal made but now?'

     'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said--
     'And they answered not our cheer!
     The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
     How thin they are and sere!
     I never saw aught like to them,
     Unless perchance it were

     Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
     My forest-brook along;
     When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
     And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
     That eats the she-wolf's young.'

     'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
     (The Pilot made reply)
     I am a-feared'--'Push on, push on!'
     Said the Hermit cheerily.

     The boat came closer to the ship,
     But I nor spake nor stirred;
     The boat came close beneath the ship,
     And straight a sound was heard.

     Under the water it rumbled on,
     Still louder and more dead:
     It reached the ship, it split the bay;
     The ship went down like lead.

     Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
     Which sky and ocean smote,
     Like one that hath been seven days drowned
     My body lay afloat;
     But swift as dreams, myself I found
     Within the Pilot's boat.

     Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
     The boat spun round and round;
     And all was still, save that the hill
     Was telling of the sound.

     I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked
     And fell down in a fit;
     The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
     And prayed where he did sit.

     I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
     Who now doth crazy go,
     Laughed loud and long, and all the while
     His eyes went to and fro.
     'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,
     The Devil knows how to row.'

     And now, all in my own countree,
     I stood on the firm land!
     The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
     And scarcely he could stand.

     'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'
     The Hermit crossed his brow.
     'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say--
     What manner of man art thou?

     Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
     With a woful agony,
     Which forced me to begin my tale;
     And then it left me free.

     Since then, at an uncertain hour,
     That agony returns:
     And till my ghastly tale is told,
     This heart within me burns.

     I pass, like night, from land to land;
     I have strange power of speech;
     That moment that his face I see,
     I know the man that must hear me:
     To him my tale I teach.

     What loud uproar bursts from that door!
     The wedding-guests are there:
     But in the garden-bower the bride
     And bride-maids singing are:
     And hark the little vesper bell,
     Which biddeth me to prayer!

     O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
     Alone on a wide wide sea:
     So lonely 'twas, that God himself
     Scarce seem'ed there to be.

     O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
     'Tis sweeter far to me,
     To walk together to the kirk
     With a goodly company!--

     To walk together to the kirk,
     And all together pray,
     While each to his great Father bends,
     Old men, and babes, and loving friends
     And youths and maidens gay!

     Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
     To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
     He prayeth well, who loveth well
     Both man and bird and beast.

     He prayeth best, who loveth best
     All things both great and small;
     For the dear God who loveth us,
     He made and loveth all.

     The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
     Whose beard with age is hoar,
     Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
     Turned from the bridegroom's door.

     He went like one that hath been stunned,
     And is of sense forlorn:
     A sadder and a wiser man,
     He rose the morrow morn.

            -THE END-

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Kubla Khan


        Samuel Taylor Coleridge

        Kubla Khan

        In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
        A stately pleasure dome decree:
        Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
        Through caverns measureless to man
        Down to a sunless sea.

        So twice five miles of fertile ground
        With walls and toweres were girdled round:
        And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
        Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree,
        And here were forests ancient as the hills,
        Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

        But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
        Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
        A savage place; as holy and enchanted
        As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
        By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
        And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
        As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
        A mighty fountain momently was forced,
        Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
        Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
        Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
        And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
        It flung up momently the sacred river.
        Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
        Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
        Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
        And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
        And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
        Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

        The shadow of the dome of pleasure
        Floated midway on the waves;
        Where was heard the mingled measure
        From the fountain and the caves.
        It was a miracle of rare device,
        A sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice!

        A damsel with a dulcimer
        In a vision once I saw:
        It was an Abyssinian maid,
        And on her dulcimer she played,
        Singing of Mount Abora.
        Could I revive within me
        Her symphony and song,

        To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
        That with music loud and long,
        I would build that dome in air,
        That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
        And all who heard should see them there,
        And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
        His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
        Weave a circle round him thrice,
        And close your eyes with holy dread,
        For he on honey dew hath fed,
        And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

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The Charge of the Light Brigade

        by Alfred Tennyson  (1809 - 1892)

        Half a league, half a league,
        Half a league onward,
        All in the valley of Death
          Rode the six hundred.
        "Forward, the Light Brigade!
        Charge for the guns!" he said:
        Into the valley of Death
          Rode the six hundred.

        "Forward, the Light Brigade!"
        Was there a man dismayed?
        Not tho' the soldiers knew
          Someone had blundered:
        Theirs was not to make reply,
        Theirs was not to reason why,
        Theirs was but to do and die:
        Into the valley of Death
          Rode the six hundred.

        Cannon to the right of them,
        Cannon to the left of them,
        Cannon in front of them
          Volleyed and thunder'd;
        Storm'd at with shot and shell,
        Boldly they rode and well,
        Into the jaws of Death,
        Into the mouth of Hell,
          Rode the six hundred.

        Flashed all their sabres bare,
        Flashed as they turned in air,
        Sab'ring the gunners there,
        Charging and army, while
          All the world wondered:
        Plunging in the battery smoke,
        Right through the line they broke;
        Cossack and Russian
        Reeled from the sabre-stroke
          Shattered and sundered.
        Then they rode back, but not--
          Not the six hundred.

        Cannon to the right of them,
        Cannon to the left of them,
        Cannon in front of them
          Volleyed and thundered;
        Stormed at with shot and shell,
        While horse and hero fell,
        They that fought so well,
        Came thro' the jaws of Death,
        Back from the mouth of Hell,
        All that was left of them,
          Left of the six hundred.

        When can their glory fade?
        Oh, the wild charge they made!
          All the world wondered.
        Honor the charge they made!
        Honor the Light Brigade,
          Noble Six Hundred!


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The Sun that Brief December Day


                      By John Greenleaf Whittier, 1807-1892

                             From "Snow Bound"


        The sun that brief December day
        Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
        And, darkly circled, gave at noon
        A sadder light than waning moon.
        Slow tracing down the thickening sky
        Its mute and ominous prophecy,
        A portent seeming less than threat,
        It sank from sight before it set.
        A chill no coat, however stout,
        Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
        A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
        That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
        Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
        The coming of the snow-storm told.
        The wind blew east; we heard the roar
        Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
        And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
        Beat with low rhythm our inland air.

        Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,-
        Brought in the wood from out of doors,
        Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
        Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows:
        Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
        And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
        Impatient down the stanchion rows
        The cattle shake their walnut bows;
        While, peering from his early perch
        Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
        The cock his crested helmet bent
        And down his querulous challenge sent.

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Mandalay

 
               Rudyard Kipling  ( 1865-1936)
 
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
    Come you back to Mandalay,
    Where the old Flotilla lay:
    Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the flyin'-fishes play,
    An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
 
 
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat -- jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
    Bloomin' idol made o'mud --
    Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd --
    Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
    On the road to Mandalay . . .
 
 
When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
    Elephints a-pilin' teak
    In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
    Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
    On the road to Mandalay . . .
 
 
But that's all shove be'ind me -- long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
    No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
    But them spicy garlic smells,
    An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
    On the road to Mandalay . . .
 
 
I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
    Beefy face an' grubby 'and --
    Law! wot do they understand?
    I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
    On the road to Mandalay . . .
 
 
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be --
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the old Flotilla lay,
    With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
    On the road to Mandalay,
    Where the flyin'-fishes play,
    An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
 

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