"Perchance to men it may not be given Infant Joy HAVE no name; I am but two days old." "I happy am, Joy is my name," Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee; I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee! A Birthday Y heart is like a singing bird M William Blake. Whose nest is in a watered shoot; Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me. Raise me a daïs of silk and down; (B 838) 385 Work it in gold and silver grapes, P Christina Rossetti. Hidden Joys LEASURES lie thickest where no pleasures seem: There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground But holds some joy, of silence, or of sound, Some sprite begotten of a summer dream. The very meanest things are made supreme With innate ecstasy. No grain of sand But moves a bright and million-peopled land, And hath its Edens and its Eves, I deem. For Love, though blind himself, a curious eye Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of things, And touched mine ear with power. Thus, far or nigh, Minute or mighty, fixed or free with wings, Delight from many a nameless covert sly Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar sings. R S. L. Blanchard. The Land of Faëry IGHT well I wot, most mighty Sovereign, Of some the abundance of an idle brain Since none that breatheth living air doth know Which I so much do vaunt, yet nowhere show, But let that man with better sense advise Which to late age were never mentioned. Yet all these were when no man did them know, Of other worlds he happily should hear? He wonder would much more; yet such to some appear. Spenser. The Consolations of Poetry S HE doth for my comfort stay, With those sweets the springtide yields, Where the shepherds chant their loves, And the lasses more excel Than the sweet-voiced Philomel, Though of all those pleasures past Nothing now remains at last, That more makes than mends my grief; (Whence she should be driven too, She doth tell me where to borrow Poesy, thou sweet'st content Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee, Though thou be to them a scorn That to nought but earth are born, Let my life no longer be Than I am in love with thee. |