Ah! liberal-handed lady, though
Round Eire's shore the generous wave
Ebbs now, in thee 'tis still at flow;
No marvel that the bard's thy slave.

A lady passionate for song,
True friend of all the bardic kind,
Who cleaves to her can scarce go wrong;
Song to her loaned doth interest find.

The good tradition holds no more
Of open-handedness to art;
On later manners men set store
And close their purse-strings and their heart.

Now that the giving spirit's gone
And wealth and art are by the ears,

Ah, friend! 'tis true — this truth you lovers know —
In vain my structures rise, my gardens grow,
In vain fair Thames reflects the double scenes
Of hanging mountains, and of sloping greens:
Joy lives not here, to happier seats it flies,
And only dwells where W ORTLEY casts her eyes.
What are the gay parterre, the chequer'd shade,
The morning bower, the ev'ning colonade,
But soft recesses of uneasy minds,
To sigh unheard in, to the passing winds?
So the struck deer in some sequester'd part
Lies down to die, the arrow at his heart,

Ah, cruel maid, because I see
You scornful of my love and me,
I'll trouble you no more, but go
My way, where you shall never know
What is become of me; there I
Will find me out a path to die,
Or learn some way how to forget
You and your name for ever. Yet,
Ere I go hence, know this from me,
What will, in time, your fortune be;
This to your coyness I will tell,
And having spoke it once, farewell.
The lily will not long endure,
Nor the snow continue pure;
The rose, the violet, one day
See, both these lady-flowers decay:

Ah Bounce! ah gentle Beast! why wouldst thou dye,
When thou hadst Meat enough and Orrery?

Ah , blessedness of work! the aimless mind,
Left to pursue at will its fancies wild,
Returns at length, like some play-wearied child,
Unto its labor's knee, and leaves behind
Its little games, and learns to soothe its blind
Wide longings in the sweet tranquillity
Of limited tasks, whose mild successions wind
In pauseless waves unto the distant sea;
For blank infinity is cold as ice,
And drear the void of space unsown with stars,
And dolorous the barren line of shore;
Therefore it was with lover-like device

Ah blackbird, giving thanks,
From your nest in the thorn . . . Hermit
that use no bell: soft, sweet,
From the otherworld, your whistle!

Ah , be not false, sweet Splendor!
Be true, be good;
Be wise as thou art tender;
Be all that Beauty should.

Not lightly be thy citadel subdued;
Not ignobly, not untimely.
Take praise in solemn mood;
Take love sublimely.

pilgrim: Agèd man, that mows these fields.
time: Pilgrim, speak; what is thy will?
pilgrim: Whose soil is this, that such sweet pasture yields?
Or who art thou, whose foot stands never still?
Or where am I?
time:In love.
pilgrim: His Lordship lies above.
time: Yes, and below, and round about
Wherein all sorts of flowers are growing
Which, as the early Spring puts out,
Time falls as fast a-mowing.
pilgrim: If thou art Time, these flowers have lives,
And then I fear
Under some lily she I love
May now be growing there.

The age
requires this task:
create
a different image;
re-animate
the mask.

Shatter the icons of slavery and fear.
Replace
the leer
of the minstrel's burnt-cork face
with a proud, serene
and classic bronze of Benin.

The age of seventy is gone,
and now four springtimes more;
I know inside that I no longer
have my former spirit.
Guests — I invite men of my age
since I can talk to them;
poems — afraid of senility,
I work even harder on them.
My books and paintings —
I never tire
of putting them in order;
my pavilions and terraces —
I renovate them, have them all rebuilt.
It's like chess pieces on a board,
the game drawn to a close:
you gather them and get things ready
for the next man's game.