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Cyder: Book I

-- -- Honos erit huic quoq; Pomo? Virg.

What Soil the Apple loves, what Care is due
To Orchats, timeliest when to press the Fruits,
Thy Gift, Pomona, in Miltonian Verse
Adventrous I presume to sing; of Verse
Nor skill'd, nor studious: But my Native Soil
Invites me, and the Theme as yet unsung.

Ye Ariconian Knights, and fairest Dames,
To whom propitious Heav'n these Blessings grants,
Attend my Layes; nor hence disdain to learn,
How Nature's Gifts may be improv'd by Art.

And thou, O Mostyn, whose Benevolence,
And Candor, oft experienc'd, Me vouchsaf'd
To knit in Friendship, growing still with Years,
Accept this Pledge of Gratitude and Love.
May it a lasting Monument remain

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poem by John Arthur Phillips
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A Rainbow Romance

Romance
to Bloom
let me wait
and watch out
When the Spring Rains;

it is
now in the sky
lustly curved
with stunning colours
just a minute
it whispers
a new tune of lies
and glues to heart
pining to see
the invisible sight

The embers
of Romance
lightens up

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poem by Lalitha Iyer
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Song -- Rondeau

Finish these langours! Oh! I'm sick
Of dying airs, I know the trick;
Long since I've learn'd to well explain
Th'unmeaning cant of fire and pain,
And see through all the senseless lies
Of burning darts from killing eyes;
I'm tir'd with this continual rout
Of bowing low and leading out.
Finish, &c.
Finish this tedious dangling trade,
By which so many fools are made;
For fools they are, whom you can please
By such affected airs as these:
At opera near my box to stand,
And slyly press the given hand,
Thus may you wait whole years in vain;
But sure you would, were you in pain.
Finish, &c.

poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
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Sheep and Lambs

All in the April evening,
April airs were abroad;
The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs
Passed me by on the road;
All in the April evening
I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary and crying
With a weak, human cry.
I thought on the Lamb of God
Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains
Dewy pastures are sweet;
Rest for the little bodies,
Rest for the little feet.

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poem by Katharine Tynan
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From Down The River

A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.

Lithe and long, with the Indian grace,
Versed in the varied Indian craft,
A half-breed, slim, and sallow of face,

He nurses within mad currents that chase-
The swift, the sluggish-a foreign graft,
This hardy son of a hybrid race.

What southern airs, what snows embrace
Within his breast-soft airs that waft
The half-breed-slim, and sallow of face,

Far from the Gatineau's foaming base!
And what strong potion hath he quaffed,
This hardy son of a hybrid race,

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poem by Susan Frances Harrison
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From 'Down the River

Gatineau Point
A HALF-BREED, slim, and sallow of face,
Alphonse lies full length on his raft,
The hardy son of a hybrid race.

Lithe and long, with the Indian grace,
Versed in the varied Indian craft,
A half-breed, slim, and sallow of face,

He nurses within mad currents that chase–
The swift, the sluggish–a foreign graft,
This hardy son of a hybrid race.

What southern airs, what snows embrace
Within his breast–soft airs that waft
The half-breed–slim, and sallow of face,

Far from the Gatineau's foaming base!
And what strong potion hath he quaffed,
This hardy son of a hybrid race,

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poem by Susie Frances Harrison
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You With Your Airs And Graces

You with your airs and graces you do feel so proud
And you like to be seen to stand out in the crowd
And you even feel that others should bow to you
You've got a swollen ego to give you your due.

You tell everybody who wishes for to hear
of your daughter the uni professor and your son the engineer
But your husband a black sheep or so 'twould appear
Since he is a flawed person who enjoys his beer.

You with your airs and graces you do like to brag
You are known in the Town as a leading windbag
Your ego is swimming in your self conceit
Though one or two like you live on every street.

With everyone who cares to listen you like to impress
Them with your grand stories of your childrens success
But your husband you never once mention his name
He gets drunk off and on that seems human but in that you feel shame.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Siesta

FROM THE SPANISH.

Vientecico murmurador,
Que lo gozas y andas todo, &c.

Airs, that wander and murmur round,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow!
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest,
Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er.
Sweet be her slumbers! though in my breast
The pain she has waked may slumber no more.
Breathing soft from the blue profound,
Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

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poem by William Cullen Bryant
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On a Line from Valéry (The Gulf War)

The whole green sky is dying.The last tree flares
With a great burst of supernatural rose
Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

Could we imagine our return to prayers
To end in time before time's final throes,
The green sky dying as the last tree flares?

But we were young in judgement, old in years
Who could make peace; but it was war we chose,
To spread its canopy of poisoning airs.

Not all our children's pleas and women's fears
Could steer us from this hell.And now God knows
His whole green sky is dying as it flares.

Our crops of wheat have turned to fields of tares.
This dreadful century staggers to its close
And the sky dies for us, its poisoned heirs.

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poem by Carolyn Kizer
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Address To Music

OH thou! whose soft, bewitching lyre,
Can lull the sting of pain to rest;
Oh thou! whose warbling notes inspire,
The pensive muse with visions blest;
Sweet music! let thy melting airs
Enhance my joys, and sooth my cares!

Is there enchantment in thy voice,
Thy dulcet harp, thy moving measure;
To bid the mournful mind rejoice,
To raise the fairy form of pleasure?
Yes, heav'nly maid! a charm is thine,
A magic art, a spell divine!

Sweet music! when thy notes we hear,
Some dear remembrance oft they bring,
Of friends belov'd, no longer near,
And days that flew on rapture's wing;
Hours of delight that long are past,
And dreams of joy, too bright to last!

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poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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