Poems Of Coleridge Part 25

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT

Its balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety!

And such my infant's latest sigh!

Oh tell, rude stone! the pa.s.ser by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.

1799.

AN ODE TO THE RAIN

COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT DETAIN.

I

I know it is dark; and though I have lain, Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.

O Rain! that I lie listening to, You're but a doleful sound at best: I owe you little thanks,'tis true, For breaking thus my needful rest!

Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you will but take your flight, I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, Though sick and sore for want of sleep.

But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

II

O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!

You know, if you know aught, that we, Both night and day, but ill agree: For days and months, and almost years, Have limp'd on through this vale of tears, Since body of mine, and rainy weather, Have lived on easy terms together.

Yet if, as soon as it is light, O Rain! you will but take your flight, Though you should come again to-morrow, And bring with you both pain and sorrow; Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell-- I'll nothing speak of you but well.

But only now for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

III

Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way; Nay, I could write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing how very good you are. -- What then? sometimes it must be fair!

And if sometimes, why not to-day?

Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

IV

Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy, Take no offence! I'll tell you why.

A dear old Friend e'en now is here, And with him came my sister dear; After long absence now first met, Long months by pain and grief beset-- We three dear friends! in truth, we groan Impatiently to be alone.

We three, you mark! and not one more!

The strong wish makes my spirit sore.

We have so much to talk about, So many sad things to let out; So many tears in our eye-corners, Sitting like little Jacky Homers-- In short, as soon as it is day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

V

And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!

Whenever you shall come again, Be you as dull as e'er you could (And by the bye 'tis understood, You're not so pleasant as you're good), Yet, knowing well your worth and place, I'll welcome you with cheerful face; And though you stay'd a week or more, Were ten times duller than before; Yet with kind heart, and right good will, I'll sit and listen to you still; Nor should you go away, dear Rain!

Uninvited to remain.

But only now, for this one day, Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

1802.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!"

In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong; What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving-all come back together.

But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he-- "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!"

1802.

SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things, And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone, Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on.

_April 23, 1799_.

LINES ON A CHILD

Encinctured with a twine of leaves, That leafy twine his only dress!

A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, By moonlight, in a wilderness.

The moon was bright, the air was free, And fruits and flowers together grew, On many a shrub and many a tree: And all put on a gentle hue, Hanging in the shadowy air Like a picture rich and rare.

It was a climate where, they say, The night is more belov'd than day.

But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd, That beauteous Boy to linger here?

Alone, by night, a little child, In place so silent and so wild- Has he no friend, no loving mother near?