Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 51

Then finish the last song and let us

leave.

Forget this night when the night is

no more.

Whom do I try to clasp in my

arms? Dreams can never be made captive.

My eager hands press emptiness to

my heart and it bruises my breast.

Wilfred Owen – Asleep

Under his helmet, up against his pack,
After so many days of work and waking,
Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.

There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,
Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking
Of the aborted life within him leaping,
Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.

And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping
From the intruding lead, like ants on track.

Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking
Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,
High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,
Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,
And these winds' scimitars,
-Or whether yet his thin and sodden head
Confuses more and more with the low mould,
His hair being one with the grey grass
Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,
Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!
He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,
Than we who wake, and waking say Alas

George Gordon Byron – Stanzas for Music

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep;

Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee,

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

Rabindranath Tagore – The Gardener 41

I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you; but I

dare not, for fear you should laugh.

That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.

I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I

dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.

That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of

what I mean.

I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

I long to use the most precious words I have for you; but I dare

not, fearing I should not be paid with like value.

That is why I gave you hard names and boast of my callous

strength.

I hurt you, for fear you should never know any pain.

I long to sit silent by you; but I dare not lest my heart come

out at my lips.

That is why I prattle and chatter lightly and hide my heart

behind words.

I rudely handle my pain, for fear you should do so.

I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my

cowardice should become known to you.

That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your

presence.

Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh for ever.

George Gordon Byron – Lachin Y Gair

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury rove;

Restore me to the rocks, where the snowflake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:

Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war;

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered;

My cap was teh bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;

On chieftains long perished my memory pondered,

As daily I strode through the pine-covered glade;

I sought not my home till the day's dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;

For fancy was cheered by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.

Rouch Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,

Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

"Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"

Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crowned not your fall with applause:

Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber,

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;

The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have rolled on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,

Years must elapse ere I tread you again:

Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.

England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar:

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of the dark Loch na Garr.