Sydney Dobell

"There grew a lowly flower by Eden-gate Among the thorns and thistles. High the palm Branch’d o’er her, and imperial by her side Upstood the sunburnt lily of the East.The goodly gate swung oft, with many gods Going and coming, and the spice-winds blew Music and murmurings, and paradise Well’d over and enrich’d the outer wild.Then the palm trembled fast-bound by the feet, And the imperial Lily bow’d her down With yearning, but they could not enter in.The lowly flower she look’d up to the palm And lily, and at eve was full of dews, And hung her head and wept and said, Ah these Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in?There came an angel to the gate at even, A weary angel, with dishevelld hair; For he had wanderd far, and as he went, The blossoms of his crown fell one by one Thro many nights, and seemd a falling star.He saw the lovely flower by Eden-gate, And cried, Ah, pure and beautiful! and turnd And stoopd to her and wound her in his hair, And in his golden hair she enterd in.Husband! I was the weed at Eden-gate; I lookd up to the lily and the palm Above me, and I wept and said, Ah these Are tall and fair, and shall I enter in?And one came by me to the gate at even, And stoopd to me and wound me in his hair And in his golden hair I enterd in."

"Ten heads and twenty hearts! so that this me, Having more room and verge, and striking less The cage that galls us into consciousness, Might drown the rings and ripples of to be In the smooth deep of being: plenary Round hours; great days, as if two days should press Together, and their wine-press’d night accresce The next night to so dead a parody Of death as cures such living: of these ordain My years; of those large years grant me not seven, Nor seventy, no, nor only seventy sevens! And then, perhaps, I might stand well in even This rain of things; down-rain, up-rain, side-rain; This rain from Earth and Ocean, air and heaven, And from the Heaven within the Heaven of Heavens."

"Little in human schules have I beene; My colledge is all carpeted with greene, And archèd with a. roof of spangled blue, My Hippocrcrene is the early dewe, My seate turf-piled is dight with faery sheene, My table some old stone no handes did hewe, Or twisted roote of oake or classicke beech. My servitor, the sweetly spoken breeze, Strange unwritte books doth bringe me one by one. Well pleased I make and take my own degree, Master of many arts no schule can teach; My colledge hath no termes. Its doctors are Righte eloquent sweet flowres and whisperinge trees, Whereof the winde takes counselle; everie star That discourseth all nighte with silent speeche; Greye leverende hilles with foreheads bare with age, Great stormes that argue sternlie each with each When woods chant anthems, and a streame or two For work-day musicke."