The Fly

Little Fly
Thy summers play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink & sing;
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength & breath;
And the want
Of thought is death;

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.

The golden net/ Złota sieć

Three Virgins at the break of day:
"Whither, young Man, whither away?
Alas for woe! alas for woe!"
They cry, & tears for ever flow.
The one was Cloth'd in flames of fire,
The other Cloth'd in iron wire,
The other Cloth'd in tears & sighs.
Dazling bright before my Eyes
They bore a Net of golden twine
To hang upon the Branches fine.
Pitying I wept to see the woe
That love & Beauty undergo,
To be consum'd in burning Fires
And in ungratifie Desires,
And in tears cloth'd nigth & day
Melted all my soul away.
When they saw my Tears, a Smile
That did Heaven itself beguile,
Bore the Golden Net aloft
As on downy Pinions soft
Over the Morning of my Day.
Underneath the Net I stray,
Now intreating Burning Fire,
Now intreating Iron Wire,
Now intreating Tears & Sighs,
O when will the morning rise?

******************************************************

Dziewice trzy ranną szarówką:
"Dokąd Młodzieńcze? Chodź tu na słówko
Strapienie bieda! Bieda, strapienie!
I łzy im płyną niczym strumienie
A jedna miała Szatę z płomienia
Druga ubrana w łzy i westchnienia
Trzecia, zaś w drucie, w żelazie ciała
Ta trójka tak przede mną stała
Świecąc mi w Oczy Siecią Złotą
- Wkrótce Konary drzew nią oplotą.
Z rozpaczy-m płakał widząc nieszczęścia
Tak Miłości jak i Piękna,
Które w Płomieniach muszą zginąć
W Żądzach jałowych się rozpłynąć
I moja Dusza w łzy przebrana
Zginęła, sczezła tego rana.
Gdy zobaczył Łzy, wnet Uśmiech,
Który nawet Niebo uśpił
Uniósł wysoko Złote Sidła
Jak gdyby na pierzastych Skrzydłach
Ponad Poranek mego Dnia.
Znowu pod Siecią droga ta,
Która prowadzi prosto w Ogień
Druty Żelazne i Złowrogie,
W Łzy i Westchnienia nieskończone
Ach kiedyż wstanie wreszcie dzionek?

The Little Black Boy

MY mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O, my soul is white!
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissed me,
And, pointing to the East, began to say:

'Look at the rising sun: there God does live,
And gives His light, and gives His heat away,
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

'And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

'For when our souls have learn'd the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear His voice,
Saying, "Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice."'

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me,
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.

The little Girl Lost

The Little Girl Lost

In futurity
I prophetic see
That the earth from sleep
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her Maker meek;
And the desert wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summerr's prime
Never fades away,
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told;
She had wander'd long
Hearing wild birds' song.
'Sweet sleep, come to me
Underneath this tree.
Do father, mother, weep?
Where can Lyca sleep?
'Lost in desert wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep
If her mother weep?
'If her heart does ache
Than let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
'Frowning, frowning night,
O'er this desert bright,
Let thy moon arise
while I close my eyes.'
Sleeping Lyca lay
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
View'd the maid asleep.
The kingly lion stood,
And the virgin view'd,
Then he gamboll'd round
O'er the hallow ground.
Leopards, tigers, play
Round her as she lay,
While the lion old
Bow'd his mane of gold
And her bosom lick,
And upon her neck
From his eyes of flame
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loos'd her slender dress
And naked they conve'd
To caves the sleeping maid.

The School boy

I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! What sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer morn
O! It drives all joy away
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.

Ah! Then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour.
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro' with the dreary shower

How can the bird for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing.
How can a child when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring.

O! Father & mother, if buds are nip'd,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip'd
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and cares dismay,

How shall the summer arise in joy
Or the summer fruits appear
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear.