ANDREW LANG 1844-1912

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BALLADE OF AUTUMN

We built a castle in the air,

In summer weather, you and I,

The wind and sun were in your hair,

Gold hair against a sapphire sky:

When autumn came, with leaves that fly

Before the storm, across the plain,

You fled from me, with scarce a sigh,

My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of autumn flare:

I watch the moonlit sails go by;

I marvel how men toil and fare,

The weary business that they ply!

Their voyaging is vanity,

And fairy gold is all their gain,

And all the winds of winter cry,

"My Love returns no more again!"

Here, in my Castle of Despair,

I sit alone with memory;

The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,

To keep the outcast company.

The brooding owl he hoots hard by,

The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,

The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,

My Love returns no more again!

Andrew Lang was a Scottish poet, novelist and literary critic. He was also well known as a collector of folk and fairy tales.

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WALTER de la MARE 1873-1958

THE LISTENERS

"Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller,

Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grass

Of the forest's ferny floor;

And a bird flew up out of the turret,

Above the Traveller's head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;

"Is there anybody there?" he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;

No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,

Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners

That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight

To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,

That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken

By the lonely Traveller's call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,

Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,

'Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even

Louder, and lifted his head:--

"Tell them I came, and no one answered,

That I kept my word," he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,

Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house

From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,

And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,

When the plunging hoofs were gone. 

This English poet, short story writer and novelist is especially remembered for his works for children. In 1947 his Collected Stories for Children won the Carnegie Medal for British children's books.

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THOMAS HOOD 1789-1845

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MY CIGAR

Some sigh for this and that, 

My wishes don't go far;

The world may wag at will,

So I have my cigar. 

Some fret themselves to death

With Whig and Tory jar;

I don't care which is in, 

So I have my cigar.

Sir John requests my vote,

And so does Mr. Marr;

I don't care how it goes,

So I have my cigar. 

Some want a German row,

Some wish a Russian war;

I care not. I'm at peace

So I have my cigar.

I never see the "Post,"

I seldom read the "Star;"

The "Globe" I scarcely heed,

So I have my cigar. 

Honours have come to men

My juniors at the Bar; 

No matter - I can wait,

So I have my cigar.

Ambition frets me not;

A cab or glory's car

Are just the same to me, 

So I have my cigar.

I worship no vain gods,

But serve the household Lar;*

I'm sure to be at home, 

So I have my cigar. 

I do not seek for fame,

A general with a scar;

A private let me be, 

So I have my cigar. 

To have my choice among

The toys of life's bazaar,

The deuce may take them all 

So I have my cigar.

Some minds are often tossed

By tempests like a tar;

I always seem in port,

So I have my cigar.

The ardent flame of love,

My bosom cannot char,

I smoke but do not burn,

So I have my cigar.

They tell me Nancy Low

Has married Mr. R.;

The jilt! but I can live,

So I have my cigar. 

*Lar - a spirit who watches over a house. Thomas Hood was an English poet,  author and humorist who contributed regularly to The London Magazine and Punch. He was the father of playwright and humorist Tom Hood 1835-74.

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THOMAS HARDY 1840-1928

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THE SUBALTERNS

"Poor wanderer," said the leaden sky,

"I fain would lighten thee,

But there are laws in force on high

Which say it must not be."

"I would not freeze thee, shorn one," cried

The North, "knew I but how

To warm my breath, to slack my stride;

But I am ruled as thou."

"To-morrow I attack thee, wight,"

Said Sickness. "Yet I swear

I bear thy little ark no spite,

But am bid enter there."

"Come hither, Son," I heard Death say;

"I did not will a grave

Should end thy pilgrimage to-day,

But I, too, am a slave!"

We smiled upon each other then,

And life to me had less

Of that fell look it wore ere when

They owned their passiveness.

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This English novelist and poet was a Victorian realist whose writings were influenced by Romanticism, especially by William Wordsworth and Charles Dickens.

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AMANDA McBROOM b.1947

THE ROSE

Some say love, it is a river

That drowns the tender reed.

Some say love, it is a razor

That leaves your soul to bleed.

Some say love, it is a hunger,

An endless aching need.

I say love, it is a flower,

And you it's only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking

That never learns to dance.

It's the dream afraid of waking

That never takes the chance.

It's the one who won't be taken,

Who cannot seem to give,

And the soul afraid of dying

That never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely

And the road has been to long,

And you think that love is only

For the lucky and the strong,

Just remember in the winter

Far beneath the bitter snows

Lies the seed that with the sun's love

In the spring becomes the rose.

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Amanda McBroom is an American singer, lyricist, actress and cabaret performer. 

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BEN JOHNSON 1572-1637

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SONG TO CELIA

Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise

Doth ask a drink divine;

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

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Ben Johnson was an English poet, playwright, actor and literary critic who was an outstanding influence on English poetry and stage comedy. He is best known for his satirical plays such as "The Alchemist" and "Volpone."

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