William Wordsworth, Anecdote for Fathers (1798) I have a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why. -I cannot tell, I do not know. -Why, this is strange, said I; One morn we strolled on our dry walk, Our quiet home all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; I thought of Kilve's delightful shore, Our pleasant home when spring began, A long, long year before. At this, my boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And three times to the child I said, Why, Edward, tell me why? A day it was when I could bear Some fond regrets to entertain; With so much happiness to spare, I could not feel a pain. His head he raised -- there was in sight, It caught his eye, he saw it plain -Upon the house-top, glittering bright, A broad and gilded vane. The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade. Then did the boy his tongue unlock, And eased his mind with this reply: At Kilve there was no weather-cock; And that's the reason why. Birds warbled round me -- and each trace of inward sadness had its charm; Kilve, thought I, was a favored place, And so is Liswyn farm. O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. My boy beside me tripped, so slim And graceful in his rustic dress! And, as we talked, I questioned him, In very idleness. Now tell me, had you rather be, I said, and took him by the arm, On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm? In careless mood he looked at me, While still I held him by the arm, And said, At Kilve I'd rather be Than here at Liswyn farm. William Wordsworth, The Tables Turned (1798) Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil (Fleurs du mal), 1857 The Rag-Picker's Wine Le Vin de chiffonniers Often, in the red light of a street-lamp Souvent à la clarté rouge d'un réverbère Of which the wind whips the flame and worries the glass, Dont le vent bat la flamme et tourmente le verre, In the heart of some old suburb, muddy labyrinth, Where humanity crawls in a seething ferment, Au coeur d'un vieux faubourg, labyrinthe fangeux Où l'humanité grouille en ferments orageux, One sees a rag-picker go by, shaking his head, Stumbling, bumping against the walls like a poet, He pours out his whole heart in grandiose projects. On voit un chiffonnier qui vient, hochant la tête, Butant, et se cognant aux murs comme un poète, Et, sans prendre souci des mouchards, ses sujets, Epanche tout son coeur en glorieux projets. He takes oaths, dictates sublime laws, Lays low the wicked and succors victims; Beneath the firmament spread like a canopy He gets drunk with the splendor of his own virtues. Il prête des serments, dicte des lois sublimes, Terrasse les méchants, relève les victimes, Et sous le firmament comme un dais suspendu S'enivre des splendeurs de sa propre vertu. Yes, these people harassed by domestic worries, Ground down by their work, distorted by age, Worn-out, and bending beneath a load of debris, The commingled vomit of enormous Paris, Oui, ces gens harcelés de chagrins de ménage Moulus par le travail et tourmentés par l'âge Ereintés et pliant sous un tas de débris, Vomissement confus de l'énorme Paris, Come back, smelling of the wine-cask, Followed by companions whitened by their battles, And whose moustaches bang down like old flags; Banners, flowers, and triumphal arches Reviennent, parfumés d'une odeur de futailles, Suivis de compagnons, blanchis dans les batailles, Dont la moustache pend comme les vieux drapeaux. Les bannières, les fleurs et les arcs triomphaux Rise up before them, a solemn magic! And in the deafening, brilliant orgy Of clarions and drums, of sunlight and of shouts, They bring glory to the crowd drunk with love! Se dressent devant eux, solennelle magie! Et dans l'étourdissante et lumineuse orgie Des clairons, du soleil, des cris et du tambour, Ils apportent la gloire au peuple ivre d'amour! It is thus that throughout frivolous Humanity Wine, the dazzling Pactolus, carries flakes of gold; By the throats of men he sings his exploits And reigns by his gifts like a veritable king. C'est ainsi qu'à travers l'Humanité frivole Le vin roule de l'or, éblouissant Pactole; Par le gosier de l'homme il chante ses exploits Et règne par ses dons ainsi que les vrais rois. To drown the bitterness and lull the indolence Of all these accurst old men who die in silence, God, touched with remorse, had created sleep; Man added Wine, divine child of the Sun! Pour noyer la rancoeur et bercer l'indolence De tous ces vieux maudits qui meurent en silence, Dieu, touché de remords, avait fait le sommeil; L'Homme ajouta le Vin, fils sacré du Soleil! And, with no thought of the stool-pigeons, his subjects, Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass O Captain! My Captain!, 1865 O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring: But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head; It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won; Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Native Moments, 1881 NATIVE moments! when you come upon me—Ah you are here now! Give me now libidinous joys only! Give me the drench of my passions! Give me life coarse and rank! To-day, I go consort with nature’s darlings—to-night too; I am for those who believe in loose delights—I share the midnight orgies of young men; I dance with the dancers, and drink with the drinkers; The echoes ring with our indecent calls; I take for my love some prostitute—I pick out some low person for my dearest friend, He shall be lawless, rude, illiterate—he shall be one condemn’d by others for deeds done; I will play a part no longer—Why should I exile myself from my companions? O you shunn’d persons! I at least do not shun you, I come forthwith in your midst—I will be your poet, I will be more to you than to any of the rest. 5 10
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