A Succession of Courtships

The poet is in romantic mood...

Look! There on the green field by the woods,
Where all is still, and where no strife intrudes,
A spring-hare in youthful pride now moves,
In quiet courtship his will he proves,
As akin to those who stalk in rogue's guise,
He circles and circles, his amorous prize!
Look! What does she see? blades of grass quiver,
The object of his will now, she flexes and shivers,
Tenses her ears, yet hears only the wind blow,
As it sends ripples and waves, through the meadow.
Sudden then, when in all peace and tranquility,
She now drowses in the shade of a yew-tree,
Having all strife forgotten; the issue he presses,
Pounces upon her, from amid the tresses!
Look! Then above this scene of merry passion,
Fiery amour, and nature's courtly fashion,
Amid the branches of the same flower-gilt yew,
We find this merry repeated, and made anew;
As on a branch, a royal hawk now perches,
And amid the clouds, his coming queen he searches.
Look! As above, where fails the human eye,
Past the view, they sudden race to the sky,
And where once did captivate peace and quiet,
Now a pair of hawks, does reign and riot!
Till, climbing the sky to its deepest depths,
Shrieking, they plunge down from its misty heights!
Look! Below then of that, and aside the other,
That same play, repeats a pair yet another,
Fancying a discourse in a secluded bower,
Where he now, to his love offers his flower;
And who could refuse, when passions of her heart,
Are so enlivened by the sublime of his art?
Look! It's not but those of more poetic soul,
Who find in gain the loss of love's control,
And whose wits then does rob a hesitant kiss,
As all caution forgetting, she indulges its bliss;
And akin to the hare and the hawk, he too is gripped,
By the silvery-rimmed dream of her courtship.

Dreams of a New Age

'Some have it, that the world's a great machine,
Or rather, an automaton under heaven's laws,
That helplessly clutches its moving jaws.
Or perhaps, a puppet flailing its narrow limbs,
When pulled by the the shadow above its strings.
Be it this or that, I'm inclined to think,
When travelling by air, I see the city-lights,
Or remember pictures taken from distant heights,
That show the orb, as if lit by thousand sparks,
That there is a blind order, a silent pathway
That all must follow, as best they may;
And when to thousand directions the sparks do move,
For same reason, thousand corridors their owners race,
Unknowing and unheeding, their dreams do chase.
And whence those dreams? From memories of races past,
So that when the race is at its end at last,
Same men shall take their place, and same queen
Shall dream of drones, at the very same scene.'

So at least thought one such man, having left
The corridors behind, done his repeating toil,
Of pressing buttons, or some just as pointless deed,
That to no progress and no meaning shall ever lead,
And having to sanctuary of nature withdrawn,
Now would dream and gaze to the sky before dawn.
And what should he see, if not visions of his age,
How past the sky would flow wide streams of gold,
That the puppeteer lets flow, from above his hold;
Or perhaps how the continents move and drift,
When those streams suddenly their angles shift;
Or life herself, gazing at her azure reflection,
Wondering how emotions shuffle behind every production;
Or sleepy-eyed death, who now lets his scythe rest
Between the mounds of her solicitors breasts?
Or something else, some mosaic of infinite hues,
That better describes the vision that none yet views.