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A Strip of Blue

Beauty, in quivering lines of light,
Ripples before the ravished sight;
And the unseen mystic spheres combine
To charm the cup and drug the wine.

All day I drink of the wine, and deep
In its stainless waves my senses steep;
All night my peaceful soul lies drowned
In hollows of the cup profound;
Again each morn I clamber up
The emerald crater of the cup,
On massive knobs of jasper stand
And view the azure ring expand:

I watch the foam-wreaths toss and swim
In the wine that o'erruns the jeweled rim:-
Edges of chrysolite emerge,

Dawn-tinted, from the misty surge:

My thrilled, uncovered front I lave,
My eager senses kiss the wave,

And drain, with its viewless draught, the lore
That kindles the bosom's secret core,

And the fire that maddens the poet's brain
With wild sweet ardor and heavenly pain.

1647

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A STRIP OF BLUE

I Do not own an inch of land,
But all I see is mine,-

The orchards and the mowing-fields,

The lawns and gardens fine.

The winds my tax-collectors are,
They bring me tithes divine,-
Wild scents and subtle essences,
A tribute rare and free;
And, more magnificent than all,
My window keeps for me
A glimpse of blue immensity,-
A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns
Great fleets and argosies;
I have a share in every ship
Won by the inland breeze
To loiter on yon airy road
Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams;
Each bears my own picked crew;
And nobler cargoes wait for them
Than ever India knew,-

My ships that sail into the East

Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes,-
The people of the sky,-
Guests in white raiment coming down

From Heaven, which is close by;

I call them by familiar names,
As one by one draws nigh,
So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!
The aching wastes of the unknown
Are half reclaimed from gloom,

Since on life's hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,
Spread out from morn to night;
We miss the warm, caressing shore,
Its brooding shade and light.
A part is greater than the whole;
By hints are mysteries told,
The fringes of eternity,-

God's sweeping garment-fold,
In that bright shred of glittering sea,
I reach out for, and hold.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,
Float in upon the mist;

An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford 1649

The waves are broken precious stones,

Sapphire and amethyst,

Washed from celestial basement walls
By suns unsetting kissed.

Out through the utmost gates of space,
Past where the gray stars drift,
To the widening Infinite, my soul
Glides on, a vessel swift;

Yet loses not her anchorage
In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child:

The threshold of God's door
Is that clear band of chrysoprase;
Now the vast temple floor,
The blinding glory of the dome
I bow my head before:
Thy universe, O God, is home,

In height or depth, to me;
Yet here upon thy footstool green
Content am I to be;

Glad, when is opened unto my need

Some sea-like glimpse of thee.

Lucy Larcom [1824-1893]

AN ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY STAFFORD

TO HASTEN HIM INTO THE COUNTRY

COME, spur away,

I have no patience for a longer stay,

But must go down

And leave the chargeable noise of this great town:

I will the country see,

Where old simplicity,

Though hid in gray,

Doth look more gay

Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits, that are

Almost at civil war-

'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world grows mad.

More of my days

I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;
Or to make sport

For some slight Puisne of the Inns of Court.
Then, worthy Stafford, say,

How shall we spend the day?
With what delights

Shorten the nights?

When from this tumult we are got secure,

Where mirth with all her freedom goes,

Yet shall no finger lose;

Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure?

There from the tree

We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;
And every day

Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace

Than any painted face

That I do know

Hyde Park can show:

Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet

(Though some of them in greater state

Might court my love with plate)

The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon

Some other pleasures: these to me are none.

Why do I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate!

I never mean to wed

That torture to my bed:

My Muse is she

My love shall be.

Let clowns get wealth and heirs: when I am gone

And that great bugbear, grisly Death,

Shall take this idle breath,

If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more!

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store,

An Ode to Master Anthony Stafford 1651

No fruit shall 'scape

Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
Then, full, we'll seek a shade,

And hear what music's made;

How Philomel

Her tale doth tell,

And how the other birds do fill the choir;

The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
Warbling melodious notes;

We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky,

Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly:
Nor will we spare

To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare;
But let our hounds run loose

In any ground they'll choose;
The buck shall fall,

The stag, and all.

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,
For to my Muse, if not to me,

I'm sure all game is free:

Heaven, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
And drink by stealth

A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,

I'll take my pipe and try

The Phrygian melody;

Which he that hears,

Lets through his ears

A madness to distemper all the brain:
Then I another pipe will take

And Doric music make,

To civilize with graver notes our wits again.

Thomas Randolph [1605-1635]

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