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The Change

© Leon Gellert

Last year I heard the songs of birds,
And heard the trumpets of the bees.
I caught the winding rivers words,
And clutched at leaves of trees.

What ails thee, England? Altar, mart, and grange
Dream of the knife by night; not so, not so
The clear Republic waits the general throe,
Along her noonday mountains’ open range.
God be with both! for one is young to know
The other’s rote of evil and of change.

Winter-Store

© Archibald Lampman

Subtly conscious, all awake,

Let us clear our eyes, and break

Rokeby: Canto IV.

© Sir Walter Scott

I.

When Denmark's raven soar'd on high,

Content and Rich

© Robert Southwell

I dwell in Grace's court,
Enriched with Virtue's rights;
Faith guides my wit, Love leads my will,
Hope all my mind delights.

Year That Trembled

© Walt Whitman

YEAR that trembled and reel'd beneath me!
Your summer wind was warm enough-yet the air I breathed froze me;
A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me;
Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself;
Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled?
And sullen hymns of defeat?

Paradise Lost: Book IV

© Patrick Kavanagh

"Which of those rebel Spirits adjudg'd to Hell
Com'st thou, escap'd thy prison? and, transform'd,
Why satt'st thou like an enemy in wait,
Here watching at the head of these that sleep?"

Hymn to Life

© James Schuyler

The wind rests its cheek upon the ground and feels the cool damp

And lifts its head with twigs and small dead blades of grass

Fears In Solitude. Written In April, 1798, During The Alarm Of An Invasion

© Samuel Taylor Coleridge

A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,

An Essay on Man: Epistle I

© Alexander Pope

To Henry St. John, Lord Bolingbroke

Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things

Vernal Ode

© William Wordsworth

I
BENEATH the concave of an April sky,
When all the fields with freshest green were dight,
Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye

What the End Is For

© Jorie Graham

where the heard foams up into the noise of listening,
where the listening arrives without being extinguished.
The huge hum soaks up into the dusk.
The minutes spring open. Six is too many.
From where we watch,
from where even watching is an anachronism,

The Friends of Heraclitus

Your friend has died, with whom

You roamed the streets,

A Summer Recollection

Night comes!She seeks her rest.
Peace, fold her to thy breast!
And loveliest dreams unto her sleep be given:
The blessing she has brought
Into her soul be wrought!
On Earth there is no purer, brighter Heaven!

The World Below The Brine

© Walt Whitman

The change onward from ours, to that of beings who walk other
spheres.

Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman

© André Breton

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

Fie, Pleasure, Fie!

Fie pleasure, fie! thou cloyest me with delight,
Thou fill’st my mouth with sweetmeats overmuch;
I wallow still in joy both day and night:
I deem, I dream, I do, I taste, I touch,
No thing but all that smells of perfect bliss;
Fie pleasure, fie! I cannot like of this.