Poems Teachers Ask For, Book Two
полная версия
Аннотация
Читать онлайн
- -
- 100%
- +
God's Message to Men
God said: I am tired of kings;I suffer them no more;Up to my ear the morning bringsThe outrage of the poor.Think ye I have made this ballA field of havoc and war,Where tyrants great and tyrants smallMight harry the weak and poor?My angel—his name is Freedom—Choose him to be your king.He shall cut pathways east and westAnd fend you with his wing.I will never have a noble;No lineage counted great,Fishers and choppers and plowmenShall constitute a state,And ye shall succor man,'Tis nobleness to serve;Help them who cannot help again;Beware from right to swerve.Ralph Waldo Emerson.The Sandman
The rosy clouds float overhead,The sun is going down,And now the Sandman's gentle treadComes stealing through the town."White sand, white sand," he softly cries,And, as he shakes his hand,Straightway there lies on babies' eyesHis gift of shining sand.Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,As shuts the rose, they softly close,when he goes through the town.From sunny beaches far away,Yes, in another land,He gathers up, at break of day,His store of shining sand.No tempests beat that shore remote,No ships may sail that way;His little boat alone may floatWithin that lovely bay.Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,As shuts the rose, they softly close,when he goes through the town.He smiles to see the eyelids closeAbove the happy eyes,And every child right well he knows—Oh, he is very wise!But if, as he goes through the land,A naughty baby cries,His other hand takes dull gray sandTo close the wakeful eyes.Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,As shuts the rose, they softly close,when he goes through the town.So when you hear the Sandman's songSound through the twilight sweet,Be sure you do not keep him longA-waiting in the street.Lie softly down, dear little head,Rest quiet, busy hands,Till by your bed when good-night's said,He strews the shining sands.Blue eyes, gray eyes, black eyes and brown,As shuts the rose, they softly close,when he goes through the town.Margaret Vandegrift.Ring Out, Wild Bells
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,The flying cloud, the frosty light:The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.Ring out the grief that saps the mind,For those that here we see no more;Ring out the feud of rich and poor,Ring in redress to all mankind.Ring out a slowly dying cause,And ancient forms of party strife;Ring in the nobler modes of life,With sweeter manners, purer laws.Ring out false pride in place and blood,The civic slander and the spite;Ring in the love of truth and right,Ring in the common love of good.Ring out old shapes of foul disease;Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;Ring out the thousand wars of old,Ring in the thousand years of peace.Ring in the valiant man and free,The larger heart, the kindlier hand;Ring out the darkness of the land,Ring in the Christ that is to be.Alfred, Lord Tennyson.The Wishing Bridge
Among the legends sung or saidAlong our rocky shore,The Wishing Bridge of MarbleheadMay well be sung once more.An hundred years ago (so ranThe old-time story) allGood wishes said above its spanWould, soon or late, befall.If pure and earnest, never failedThe prayers of man or maidFor him who on the deep sea sailed,For her at home who stayed.Once thither came two girls from schoolAnd wished in childish glee:And one would be a queen and rule,And one the world would see.Time passed; with change of hopes and fearsAnd in the selfsame place,Two women, gray with middle years,Stood wondering, face to face.With wakened memories, as they met,They queried what had been:"A poor man's wife am I, and yet,"Said one, "I am a queen."My realm a little homestead is,Where, lacking crown and throne,I rule by loving servicesAnd patient toil alone."The other said: "The great world liesBeyond me as it laid;O'er love's and duty's boundariesMy feet have never strayed."I see but common sights at home,Its common sounds I hear,My widowed mother's sick-bed roomSufficeth for my sphere."I read to her some pleasant pageOf travel far and wide,And in a dreamy pilgrimageWe wander side by side."And when, at last, she falls asleep,My book becomes to meA magic glass: my watch I keep,But all the world I see."A farm-wife queen your place you fill,While fancy's privilegeIs mine to walk the earth at will,Thanks to the Wishing Bridge.""Nay, leave the legend for the truth,"The other cried, "and sayGod gives the wishes of our youthBut in His own best way!"John Greenleaf Whittier.The Things Divine
These are the things I hold divine:A trusting child's hand laid in mine,Rich brown earth and wind-tossed trees,The taste of grapes and the drone of bees,A rhythmic gallop, long June days,A rose-hedged lane and lovers' lays,The welcome smile on neighbors' faces,Cool, wide hills and open places,Breeze-blown fields of silver rye,The wild, sweet note of the plover's cry,Fresh spring showers and scent of box,The soft, pale tint of the garden phlox,Lilacs blooming, a drowsy noon,A flight of geese and an autumn moon,Rolling meadows and storm-washed heights,A fountain murmur on summer nights,A dappled fawn in the forest hush,Simple words and the song of a thrush,Rose-red dawns and a mate to shareWith comrade soul my gypsy fare,A waiting fire when the twilight ends,A gallant heart and the voice of friends.Jean Brooks Burt.Mothers of Men
The bravest battle that ever was fought!Shall I tell you where and when?On the map of the world you will find it not,'Twas fought by the mothers of men.Nay, not with cannon or battle shot,With sword or nobler pen,Nay, not with eloquent words or thoughtFrom mouths of wonderful men;But deep in the walled-up woman's heart—Of woman that would not yield,But bravely, silently, bore her part—Lo, there is that battle field!No marshaling troup, no bivouac song,No banner to gleam or wave,But oh! these battles, they last so long—From babyhood to the grave.Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars,She fights in her walled-up town—Fights on and on in the endless wars,Then, silent, unseen, goes down.Oh, ye with banner and battle shot,And soldiers to shout and praise,I tell you the kingliest victories foughtWere fought in those silent ways.Oh, spotless in a world of shame,With splendid and silent scorn,Go back to God as white as you came—The kingliest warrior born!Joaquin Miller.Echo
"I asked of Echo, t'other day(Whose words are often few and funny),What to a novice she could sayOf courtship, love and matrimony.Quoth Echo plainly,—'Matter-o'-money!'"Whom should I marry? Should it beA dashing damsel, gay and pert,A pattern of inconstancy;Or selfish, mercenary flirt?Quoth Echo, sharply,—'Nary flirt!'"What if, aweary of the strifeThat long has lured the dear deceiver,She promise to amend her life.And sin no more; can I believe her?Quoth Echo, very promptly;—'Leave her!'"But if some maiden with a heartOn me should venture to bestow it,Pray should I act the wiser partTo take the treasure or forgo it?Quoth Echo, with decision,—'Go it!'"But what if, seemingly afraidTo bind her fate in Hymen's fetter,She vow she means to die a maid,In answer to my loving letter?Quoth Echo, rather coolly,—'Let her!'"What if, in spite of her disdain,I find my heart entwined aboutWith Cupid's dear, delicious chainSo closely that I can't get out?Quoth Echo, laughingly,—'Get out!'"But if some maid with beauty blest,As pure and fair as Heaven can make her,Will share my labor and my restTill envious Death shall overtake her?Quoth Echo (sotto voce),-'Take her!'"John G. Saxe.Life, I Know Not What Thou Art
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we metI own to me's a secret yet.Life! we've been long togetherThrough pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;Then steal away; give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good Night, but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.Anna L. Barbauld.Autumn Leaves
In the hush and the lonely silenceOf the chill October night,Some wizard has worked his magicWith fairy fingers light.The leaves of the sturdy oak treesAre splendid with crimson and red.And the golden flags of the mapleAre fluttering overhead.Through the tangle of faded grassesThere are trailing vines ablaze,And the glory of warmth and colorGleams through the autumn haze.Like banners of marching armiesThat farther and farther go;Down the winding roads and valleysThe boughs of the sumacs glow.So open your eyes, little children,And open your hearts as well,Till the charm of the bright OctoberShall fold you in its spell.Angelina Wray.A Message for the Year
Not who you are, but what you are,That's what the world demands to know;Just what you are, what you can doTo help mankind to live and grow.Your lineage matters not at all,Nor counts one whit your gold or gear,What can you do to show the worldThe reason for your being here?For just what space you occupyThe world requires you pay the rent;It does not shower its gifts galore,Its benefits are only lent;And it has need of workers true,Willing of hand, alert of brain;Go forth and prove what you can do,Nor wait to count o'er loss or gain.Give of your best to help and cheer,The more you give the more you grow;This message evermore rings true,In time you reap whate'er you sow.No failure you have need to fear,Except to fail to do your best—What have you done, what can you do?That is the question, that the test.Elizabeth Clarke Hardy.Song of the Chattahoochee
Out of the hills of Habersham,Down the valleys of Hall,I hurry amain to reach the plain,Run the rapid and leap the fall,Split at the rock and together again,Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,And flee from folly on every sideWith a lover's pain to attain the plainFar from the hills of Habersham,Far from the valleys of Hall.All down the hills of Habersham,All through the valleys of Hall,The rushes cried "Abide, abide,"The wilful waterweeds held me thrall,The laving laurel turned my tide,The ferns and the fondling grass said "Stay,"The dewberry dipped for to work delay,And the little reeds sighed "Abide, abideHere in the hills of Habersham,Here in the valleys of Hall."High o'er the hills of Habersham,Veiling the valleys of Hall,The hickory told me manifoldFair tales of shade, the poplar tallWrought me her shadowy self to hold,The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,O'erleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,Said, "Pass not, so cold, these manifoldDeep shades of the hills of Habersham,These glades in the valleys of Hall."And oft in the hills of Habersham,And oft in the valleys of Hall,The white quartz shone, and the smooth brookstoneDid bar me of passage with friendly brawl,And many a luminous jewel lone—Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,Ruby, garnet, and amethyst—Made lures with the lights of streaming stone,In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,In the beds of the valleys of Hall.But oh, not the hills of Habersham,And oh, not the valleys of HallAvail: I am fain for to water the plain.Downward the voices of Duty call—Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main.The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,And the lordly main from beyond the plainCalls o'er the hills of Habersham,Calls through the valleys of Hall.Sidney Lanier.Used by special permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner's SonsCourting in Kentucky
When Mary Ann Dollinger got the skule daown thar on Injun BayI was glad, fer I like ter see a gal makin' her honest way,I heerd some talk in the village abaout her flyin' high,Tew high for busy farmer folks with chores ter dew ter fly;But I paid no sorter attention ter all the talk ontellShe come in her reg-lar boardin' raound ter visit with us a spell.My Jake an' her has been cronies ever since they could walk,An' it tuk me aback ter hear her kerrectin' him in his talk.Jake ain't no hand at grammar, though he hain't his beat for work;But I sez ter myself, "Look out, my gal, yer a-foolin' with a Turk!"Jake bore it wonderful patient, an' said in a mournful way,He p'sumed he was behindhand with the doin's at Injun Bay.I remember once he was askin' for some o' my Injun buns,An' she said he should allus say, "them air," stid o' "them is" the ones.Wal, Mary Ann kep' at him stiddy mornin' an' evenin' long,Tell he dassent open his mouth for fear o' talkin' wrong.One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree,When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?"An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say."Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way."No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me,Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.'Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say;But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay;I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'"An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be."God's Will is Best
Whichever way the wind doth blow,Some heart is glad to have it so;Then blow it east, or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.My little craft sails not alone,—A thousand fleets, from every zone,Are out upon a thousand seas,And what for me were favoring breezeMight dash another with the shockOf doom upon some hidden rock.I leave it to a higher WillTo stay or speed me, trusting stillThat all is well, and sure that HeWho launched my bark will sail with meThrough storm and calm, and will not fail,Whatever breezes may prevail,To land me, every peril past,Within His Haven at the last.Then blow it east, or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.Caroline H. Mason.The School-Master's Guests
IThe district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk,Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque.As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come,His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum.There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth.And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom,And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room,With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain,Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train;There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate;And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!"There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed,In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best;A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.IIAround were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath,With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath.A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair,Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair.There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey;Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day.The square stove it puffed and it crackled, and broke out in red flaming sores,Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors.White snowflakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks;And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs.IIINow Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er,And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row,And stood themselves up by the fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow.And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad,Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had:"We've come here, school-master, in-tendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round,Concernin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found;To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about,An' see if it's paying to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out."The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to readYou give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need;You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han',An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on their an';There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see,Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be.An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last;It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past.Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things go to my say,Shan't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way."And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,And nodded obliquely, and muttered: "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew.""Then as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by the mas has looked into this,That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis;An' clip the k off yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed,An' when he spells out as he ought'r, you pass the word on to the next.They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters along;But if it is so, just depend on 't, them new-grafted books is made wrong.You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war,As to say that old Spellin'-book Webster didn't know what them letters was for."And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew.""Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me,Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three;An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please,With saw-bucks an' crosses and pothooks, an' w's, x's, y's an' z's.We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reachedBy tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached."And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said: "Them's my sentiments tew.""Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day,Concernin' some things in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say.My gals is as steady as clockwork, and never give cause for much fear,But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talking such stuff as this here:'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'We love,' an' 'You love,' an' 'They—'An' they answered my questions: 'It's grammar'—'twas all I could get 'em to say.Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on soAs to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to know."IVNow Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before,Had well-nigh unjointed the stovepipe, to make it come down on the floor;And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said,A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head.The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the placeAnd the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face.The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome booksAnd, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks.And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue;And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say: "Them's my sentiments tew."Will Carleton.Mother o' Mine
If I were hanged on the highest hill,Mother o' mine!Oh, mother o' mine!I know whose love would follow me still;Mother o' mine!Oh, mother o' mine!If I were drowned in the deepest sea,Mother o' mine!Oh, mother o' mine!I know whose tears would flow down to me,Mother o' mine!Oh, mother o' mine!If I were damned o' body and soul,Mother o' mine!Oh, mother o' mine!I know whose prayers would make me whole,Mother o' mine!Oh, mother o' mine!Rudyard Kipling.Encouragement
Who dat knockin' at de do'?Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu' sho'!Come in, Ike. I's mighty gladYou come down. I t'ought you's madAt me 'bout de othah night,An' was stayin' 'way fu' spite.Say, now, was you mad fu' trueW'en I kin' o' laughed at you?Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.'Tain't no use a-lookin' sad,An' a-mekin' out you's mad;Ef you's gwine to be so glum,Wondah why you evah come.I don't lak nobidy 'roun'Dat jes' shet dey mouf an' frown—Oh, now, man, don't act a dunce!Cain't you talk? I tol' you once,Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.Wha'd you come hyeah fu' to-night?Body'd t'ink yo' haid ain't right.I's done all dat I kin do—Dressed perticler, jes' fu' you;Reckon I'd a' bettah wo'My ol' ragged calico.Aftah all de pains I's took,Cain't you tell me how I look?Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.Bless my soul! I 'mos' fu'gotTellin' you 'bout Tildy Scott.Don't you know, come Thu'sday night,She gwine ma'y Lucius White?Miss Lize say I allus wuhHeap sight laklier 'n huh;An' she'll git me somep'n new,Ef I wants to ma'y too.Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.I could ma'y in a week,If de man I wants 'ud speak.Tildy's presents 'll be fine,But dey wouldn't ekal mine.Him whut gits me fu' a wife'll be proud, you bet yo' life.I's had offers, some ain't quit;But I hasn't ma'ied yit!Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.Ike, I loves you—yes, I does;You's my choice, and allus was.Laffin' at you ain't no harm—Go 'way, dahky, whah's yo' arm?Hug me closer—dah, da's right!Wasn't you a awful sight,Havin' me to baig you so?Now ax whut you want to know—Speak up, Ike, an' 'spress yo'se'f.Paul Laurence Dunbar.The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls
The harp that once through Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs if that soul were fled.So sleeps the pride of former days,So glory's thrill is o'er,And hearts, that once beat high for praise,Now feel that pulse no more.No more to chiefs and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swells:The chord alone, that breaks at night,Its tale of ruin tells.Thus freedom now so seldom wakes,The only throb she givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.Thomas Moore.Aux Italiens
At Paris it was, at the opera there;—And she looked like a queen in a book that night,With the wreath of pearl in her raven hair,And the brooch on her breast so bright.Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,The souls in purgatory.The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,Non ti scordar di me?1The emperor there, in his box of state,Looked grave, as if he had just then seenThe red flag wave from the city gate,Where his eagles in bronze had been.The empress, too, had a tear in her eye,You'd have said that her fancy had gone back again,For one moment, under the old blue sky,To the old glad life in Spain.Well, there in our front-row box we satTogether, my bride betrothed and I;My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,And hers on the stage hard by.And both were silent, and both were sad.Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,With that regal, indolent air she had;So confident of her charm!I have not a doubt she was thinking thenOf her former lord, good soul that he was!Who died the richest and roundest of men.The Marquis of Carabas.I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;I wish him well, for the jointure givenTo my Lady of Carabas.Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love,As I had not been thinking of aught for years,Till over my eyes there began to moveSomething that felt like tears.I thought of the dress that she wore last time,When we stood 'neath the cypress trees together,In that lost land, in that soft clime,In the crimson evening weather:Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);And her warm white neck in its golden chain;And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,And falling loose again;And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast;(Oh, the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)And the one bird singing alone to his nest;And the one star over the tower.I thought of our little quarrels and strife,And the letter that brought me back my ring;And it all seemed then, in the waste of life,Such a very little thing!For I thought of her grave below the hill,Which the sentinel cypress tree stands over;And I thought, "Were she only living still,How I could forgive her and love her!"And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour,And of how, after all, old things are best,That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flowerWhich she used to wear in her breast.It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,It made me creep, and it made me cold;Like the scent that steals from the crumbling sheetWhere a mummy is half unrolled.And I turned and looked: she was sitting there,In a dim box over the stage, and drestIn that muslin dress, with that full, soft hair,And that jasmine in her breast!I was here, and she was there;And the glittering horse-shoe curved between:—From my bride betrothed, with her raven hair,And her sumptuous, scornful mien,To my early love, with her eyes downcast,And over her primrose face the shade,(In short, from the future back to the past,)There was but a step to be made.To my early love from my future brideOne moment I looked. Then I stole to the door,I traversed the passage; and down at her sideI was sitting, a moment more.My thinking of her or the music's strain,Or something which never will be exprest,Had brought her back from the grave again,With the jasmine in her breast.She is not dead, and she is not wed!But she loves me now, and she loved me then!And the very first word that her sweet lips said,My heart grew youthful again.The marchioness there, of Carabas,She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still;And but for her—well, we'll let that pass;She may marry whomever she will.But I will marry my own first love,With her primrose face, for old things are best;And the flower in her bosom, I prize it aboveThe brooch in my lady's breast.The world is filled with folly and sin,And love must cling where it can, I say:For beauty is easy enough to win;But one isn't loved every day,And I think in the lives of most women and men,There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,If only the dead could find out whenTo come back, and be forgiven.But oh the smell of that jasmine flower!And oh, that music! and oh, the wayThat voice rang out from the donjon tower,Non ti scordar di me,Non ti scordar di me!Robert Bulwer Lytton.