Epigraphy

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore—

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over—

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

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Apologia by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Is it thy will that I should wax and wane,

Barter my cloth of gold for hodden grey,

And at thy pleasure weave that web of pain

Whose brightest threads are each a wasted day?

Is it thy will Love that I love so well

That my Soul's House should be a tortured spot

Wherein, like evil paramours, must dwell

The quenchless flame, the worm that dieth not?

Nay, if it be thy will I shall endure,

And sell ambition at the common mart,

And let dull failure be my vestiture,

And sorrow dig its grave within my heart.

Perchance it may be better so at least

I have not made my heart a heart of stone,

Nor starved my boyhood of its goodly feast,

Nor walked where Beauty is a thing unknown.

Many a man hath done so; sought to fence

In straitened bonds the soul that should be free,

Trodden the dusty road of common sense,

While all the forest sang of liberty,

Not marking how the spotted hawk in flight

Passed on wide pinion through the lofty air,

To where some steep untrodden mountain height

Caught the last tresses of the Sun God's hair.

Or how the little flower he trod upon,

The daisy, that white-feathered shield of gold,

Followed with wistful eyes the wandering sun

Content if once its leaves were aureoled.

But surely it is something to have been

The best beloved for a little while,

To have walked hand in hand with Love, and seen

His purple wings flit once across thy smile.

Ay! though the gorged asp of passion feed

On my boy's heart, yet have I burst the bars,

Stood face to face with Beauty, known indeed

The Love which moves the Sun and all the stars!

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The Morning Comes Before The Sun by Susan Coolidge

Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose

From out night's gray and cloudy sheath;

Softly and still it grows and grows,

Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;

Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaks

Its dreamy fetters, one by one,

And love awakes, and labor wakes,--

The morning comes before the sun.

What is this message from the light

So fairer far than light can be?

Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,

In haste the risen sun to see;

Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,

Count the charmed moments as they run,

It is life's best and fairest part,

This morning hour before the sun.

When once thy day shall burst to flower,

When once the sun shall climb the sky,

And busy hour by busy hour,

The urgent noontide draws anigh;

When the long shadows creep abreast,

To dim the happy task half done,

Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,

This morning hush before the sun.

To each, one dawning and one dew,

One fresh young hour is given by fate,

One rose flush on the early blue.

Be not impatient then, but wait!

Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,

By midnight angels woven and spun;

Better than day its prophecy,--

The morning comes before the sun.

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The Road That Has No End

By Joseph Burrows

Hast ever tramped along the road

That has no end?

The far brown winding road, your one

Fast friend

A tattered weather-beaten swag,

A silent mate

To send

His dumb warm comfort to the heart,

A fount where dreams ascend.

There's wondrous freedom on the road

That has no end;

A man's heart glows, his spirit leaps

To blend

Its joy of life with fierce wind's gust

Upon his face:

To lend

Its cry to Nature's tumult, full

And shrill, as twilight shades descend.

The flowers bloom along the road

That has no end

Cool breezes blow, the gum trees sway

And bend;

The wild doves woo, and softly coo

Their soothing notes,

And mend

Heart's throbbing pain to sweet content,

And peace lights on the mind's sad trend

There's pain and toil along the road

That has no end;

A sinking heart, and weary feet

That spend

Their strength, and lag and crave respite;

And dim tired eyes

That tend

To close their heavy lids upon

The stinging dusts that upward wend.

There are sweet still hours along the road

That has no end

'Neath twinkling stars when night's deep shades

O'erpend;

A man's eyes shine with gathered tears,

And memories come

To rend

His straining heart strings, while above

The paling lights his mood commend.

I love the road, the swagman's road

That has no end;

I love its joys, that pains and toils

Transcend;

It is my dreams, the life that fills my heart

And when death comes and would

My peacefulness

Amend,

I pray that God may let my soul depart

With my tattered swag beside me,

'Mid my friends that never chide me,

And my face towards the distant clouded hill,

Where leads the far brown winding road

That has no end.

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Fringford Brook by Violet Jacob

The willows stand by Fringford brook,

From Fringford up to Hethe,

Sun on their cloudy silver heads,

And shadow underneath.

They ripple to the silent airs

That stir the lazy day,

Now whitened by their passing hands,

Now turned again to grey.

The slim marsh-thistle's purple plume

Droops tasselled on the stem,

The golden hawkweeds pierce like flame

The grass that harbours them;

Long drowning tresses of the weeds

Trail where the stream is slow,

The vapoured mauves of water-mint

Melt in the pools below;

Serenely soft September sheds

On earth her slumberous look,

The heartbreak of an anguished world

Throbs not by Fringford brook.

All peace is here. Beyond our range,

Yet 'neath the selfsame sky,

The boys that knew these fields of home

By Flemish willows lie.

They waded in the sun-shot flow,

They loitered in the shade,

Who trod the heavy road of death,

Jesting and unafraid.

Peace! What of peace? This glimpse of peace

Lies at the heart of pain,

For respite, ere the spirit's load

We stoop to lift again.

O load of grief, of faith, of wrath,

Of patient, quenchless will,

Till God shall ease us of your weight

We'll bear you higher still!

O ghosts that walk by Fringford brook,

'Tis more than peace you give,

For you, who knew so well to die,

Shall teach us how to live.

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Adam by Federico García Lorca

A tree of blood soaks the morning

where the newborn woman groans.

Her voice leaves glass in the wound

and on the panes, a diagram of bone.

The coming light establishes and wins

white limits of a fable that forgets

the tumult of veins in flight

toward the dim cool of the apple.

Adam dreams in the fever of the clay

of a child who comes galloping

through the double pulse of his cheek.

But a dark other Adam is dreaming

a neuter moon of seedless stone

where the child of light will burn.

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Requiescat by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life's buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

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The Tiger by William Blake

Tiger Tiger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies.

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain,

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp,

Dare its deadly terrors clasp!

When the stars threw down their spears

And water’d heaven with their tears:

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tiger Tiger burning bright,

In the forests of the night:

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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Part III

Showing how they met by appointment in a grove, where she obliged him to fight or wed her.

Early on a summer's morning,

When bright Phoebus was adorning

Every bower with his beams,

The fair lady came, it seems.

At the bottom of a mountain,

Near a pleasant crystal fountain,

There she left her gilded coach,

While the grove she did approach.

Covered with her mask, and walking,

There she met her lover talking

With a friend that he had brought;

So she asked him whom he sought.

'I am challenged by a gallant,

Who resolves to try my talent;

Who he is I cannot say,

But I hope to show him play.'

'It is I that did invite you,

You shall wed me, or I'll fight you,

Underneath those spreading trees;

Therefore, choose you which you please.

'You shall find I do not vapour,

I have brought my trusty rapier;

Therefore, take your choice,' said she,

'Either fight or marry me.'

Said he, 'Madam, pray what mean you?

In my life I've never seen you;

Pray unmask, your visage show,

Then I'll tell you aye or no.'

'I will not my face uncover

Till the marriage ties are over;

Therefore, choose you which you will,

Wed me, sir, or try your skill.

'Step within that pleasant bower,

With your friend one single hour;

Strive your thoughts to reconcile,

And I'll wander here the while.'

While this beauteous lady waited,

The young bachelors debated

What was best for to be done:

Quoth his friend, 'The hazard run.

'If my judgment can be trusted,

Wed her first, you can't be worsted;

If she's rich, you'll rise to fame,

If she's poor, why! you're the same.'

He consented to be married;

All three in a coach were carried

To a church without delay,

Where he weds the lady gay.

Though sweet pretty Cupids hovered

Round her eyes, her face was covered

With a mask, - he took her thus,

Just for better or for worse.

With a courteous kind behaviour,

She presents his friend a favour,

And withal dismissed him straight,

That he might no longer wait.

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Part IV

Showing how they rode together in her gilded coach to her noble seat, or castle, etc.

As the gilded coach stood ready,

The young lawyer and his lady

Rode together, till they came

To her house of state and fame;

Which appeared like a castle,

Where you might behold a parcel

Of young cedars, tall and straight,

Just before her palace gate.

Hand in hand they walked together,

To a hall, or parlour, rather,

Which was beautiful and fair, -

All alone she left him there.

Two long hours there he waited

Her return; - at length he fretted,

And began to grieve at last,

For he had not broke his fast.

Still he sat like one amazed,

Round a spacious room he gazed,

Which was richly beautified;

But, alas! he lost his bride.

There was peeping, laughing, sneering,

All within the lawyer's hearing;

But his bride he could not see;

'Would I were at home!' thought he.

While his heart was melancholy,

Said the steward, brisk and jolly,

'Tell me, friend, how came you here?

You've some bad design, I fear.'

He replied, 'Dear loving master,

You shall meet with no disaster

Through my means, in any case, -

Madam brought me to this place.'

Then the steward did retire,

Saying, that he would enquire

Whether it was true or no:

Ne'er was lover hampered so.

Now the lady who had filled him

With those fears, full well beheld him

From a window, as she dressed,

Pleased at the merry jest.

When she had herself attired

In rich robes, to be admired,

She appeared in his sight,

Like a moving angel bright.

'Sir! my servants have related,

How some hours you have waited

In my parlour, - tell me who

In my house you ever knew?'

'Madam! if I have offended,

It is more than I intended;

A young lady brought me here:' -

'That is true,' said she, 'my dear.

'I can be no longer cruel

To my joy, and only jewel;

Thou art mine, and I am thine,

Hand and heart I do resign!

'Once I was a wounded lover,

Now these fears are fairly over;

By receiving what I gave,

Thou art lord of what I have.'

Beauty, honour, love, and treasure,

A rich golden stream of pleasure,

With his lady he enjoys;

Thanks to Cupid's kind decoys.

Now he's clothed in rich attire,

Not inferior to a squire;

Beauty, honour, riches' store,

What can man desire more?

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