To His Coy Mistress
by Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
La Lune Blanche
by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
La lune blanche
Luit dans les bois;
De chaque branche
Part une voix
Sous la ramée . . .
Du saule noir
Où le vent pleure . . .
Rêvons, c’est l’heure.
Un vaste et tendre
Que l’astre irise . . .
C’est l’heure exquise.
U.S. immigration courts face an "existential crisis." The American Bar Association says it has a solution.
by Walter Savage Landor (1775-1864)
I strove with none, for none was worth my strife.
Nature I loved and, next to Nature, Art:
I warm’d both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Ode to the Cuckoo
by Michael Bruce (1746-1767)
Hail, beauteous stranger of the wood,
Attendant on the Spring!
Now heav’n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant, with thee
I hail the time of flow’rs;
When heav’n is fill’d with music sweet
From birds among the bow’rs.
The schoolboy, wand’ring in the wood,
To pull the flow’rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly’st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bow’r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song.
No winter in thy year!
Alas! sweet bird! not so my fate;
Dark scowling skies I see
Fast gathering round, and fraught with woe
And wintry years to me.
O could I fly, I’d fly with thee!
We’d make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o’er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.
By the way, I have long thought that the adjective that best describes ICE is vogonish. On no account should you allow an ICE officer to read poetry to you.
Those detainer requests never should have been filed.
Paul Krugman in the New York Times: “Many people have described the Trump administration as a kakistocracy — rule by the worst — which it is. But it’s also a hackistocracy — rule by the ignorant and incompetent. And in this Trump is just following standard G.O.P. practice.
“Why do hacks rule on the right? It may simply be that a party of apparatchiks feels uncomfortable with people who have any real expertise or independent reputation, no matter how loyal they may seem. After all, you never know when they might take a stand on principle.”
The Pleated Woodpecker (aka The Pilly Wood Wacker)
by Ben Hull (1941-2012)
The robins and the flickers go beep, beep, beep
But Bach’s trumpets peak
And the pilly wood wacker does so.
Notes rising to a crescendo
Like its flaming red pileate
From its long strong beak
Aristocratic like Bach
Old growth only where it harvests
And it’s fussy residentially
“Cock of the Woods”
The old timers call it.
But give this guy a Springtime hollow tree
And you will get a trip to Tahiti
Drums thundering so rapidly
That you can’t follow
But can see
The dancing woman awakening the forest