- Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale
- From Blossoms
- Wild Geese
- The Peace of Wild Things
- My Gift to You
- Departing Spring
- The Skylark
- What a Strange Thing!
- Although The Wind …
- The Old Pond
- Spring Is Like A Perhaps Hand
- Hast thou 2 loaves of bread …
- Youth and Age
- A Postcard From the Volcano
- The Kraken
- He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
- There Is a Solitude of Space
- Because I Could Not Stop for Death
- Mad Song
- Answer July
- Success Is Counted Sweetest
- Hope Is the Thing with Feathers
- The Bluebird
- A Vision of the End
- The Crying of Water
- A Rose Has Thorns As Well As Honey
- The Dark Cavalier
- There is no Life or Death
- Sheep in Winter
- To a Snowflake
- A Crocodile Scheduled for 5th March 2024
The Heaven doth not contain so many stars,
So many leaves not prostrate lie in woods
When autumn’s old and Boreas sounds his wars,
So many waves have not the ocean floods,
As my rent mind hath torments all the night,
And heart spends sighs when Phœbus brings the light.
Why should I have been partner of the light,
Who, crost in birth by bad aspéct of stars,
Have never since had happy day or night?
Why was not I a liver in the woods,
Or citizen of Thetis’s crystal floods,
Than made a man, for love and fortune’s wars?
I look each day when death should end the wars,
Uncivil wars, ’twixt sense and reason’s light;
My pains I count to mountains, meads, and floods,
And of my sorrow partners make the stars;
All desolate I haunt the fearful woods,
When I should give myself to rest at night.
With watchful eyes I ne’er behold the night,
Mother of peace, but ah! to me of wars,
And Cynthia, queen-like, shining through the woods,
When straight those lamps come in my thought, whose light
My judgment dazzled, passing brightest stars,
And then mine eyes en-isle themselves with floods.
Turn to their springs again first shall the floods,
Clear shall the sun the sad and gloomy night,
To dance about the pole cease shall the stars,
The elements renew their ancient wars
Shall first, and be deprived of place and light,
E’er I find rest in city, fields, or woods.
End these my days, indwellers of the woods,
Take this my life, ye deep and raging floods;
Sun, never rise to clear me with thy light,
Horror and darkness, keep a lasting night;
Consume me, care, with thy intestine wars,
And stay your influence o’er me, bright stars!
In vain the stars, indwellers of the woods,
Care, horror, wars, I call, and raging floods,
For all have sworn no night shall dim my sight.
William Drummond of Hawthornden (1585 –1649) was a Scottish poet.
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