A Few English poems: Good poetry is timeless

'I cannot live with You'

by Emily Dickinson



I cannot live with You -
It would be Life -
And Life is over there -
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to -
Putting up
Our Life – His porcelain -
Like a Cup -

Discarded of the Housewife -
Quaint – or Broke -
A newer Sevres pleases -
Old Ones crack -

I could not die- with You -
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down -
You – could not -

And I – Could I stand by
And see You – freeze -
Without my Right of Frost -
Death’s privilege?

Nor could I rise – with You -
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ -
That New Grace

Glow plain – and foreign
On my homesick Eye -
Except that You than He
Shone closer by -

They’d judge Us – How -
For You – served Heaven – You know,
Or sought to -
I could not -

Because You saturated Sight -
And I had not more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be -
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame -

And were You – saved -
And I – condemned to be
Where You were not -
That self – were Hell to Me -

So We must meet apart -
You there – I – here -
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer -
And that White Sustenance -
Despair -


'Because I could not stop for Death'

by Emily Dickinson



Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility -

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess - in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us -
The Dews drew quivering and chill -
For only Gossamer, my Gown -
My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground -
The Roof was scarcely visible -
The Cornice - in the Ground -

Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet
Feels shorter than Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were towards Eternity -



'I died for Beauty - but was scarce'

by Emily Dickinson



I died for Beauty – but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room –

He questioned softly ‘Why I failed’?
‘For Beauty’, I replied –
‘And I – for Truth – Themself are One –
We Bretheren, are’, He said –

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night –
We talked between the Rooms –
Until the Moss had reached our lips –
And covered up – our names –



The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

by Christopher Marlowe  (see below for Ralegh's reply)



Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap pf flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe                                            


The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

by Sir Walter Ralegh



If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.