Why Flowers Change Colour

These fresh beauties, we can prove,
Once were virgins, sick of love,
Turn'd to flowers: still in some,
Colours go and colours come.

by Robert Herrick.

Peaceful Waters:Variation

peaceful waters of the air
under echo's branches

peaceful waters of a pool
under a bough laden with stars

peaceful waters of your mouth
under a forest of kisses

by Federico García Lorca.

It Will Not Change

It will not change now
After so many years;
Life has not broken it
With parting or tears;
Death will not alter it,
It will live on
In all my songs for you
When I am gone.

by Sara Teasdale.

Me, Change! Me, Alter!

268

Me, change! Me, alter!
Then I will, when on the Everlasting Hill
A Smaller Purple grows—
At sunset, or a lesser glow
Flickers upon Cordillera—
At Day's superior close!

by Emily Dickinson.

The Leaves Like Women Interchange

987

The Leaves like Women interchange
Exclusive Confidence—
Somewhat of nods and somewhat
Portentous inference.

The Parties in both cases
Enjoining secrecy—
Inviolable compact
To notoriety.

by Emily Dickinson.

Alter! When The Hills Do

729

Alter! When the Hills do—
Falter! When the Sun
Question if His Glory
Be the Perfect One—

Surfeit! When the Daffodil
Doth of the Dew—
Even as Herself—Sir—
I will—of You—

by Emily Dickinson.

Inscription For An Alter Of Independence

THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd;
Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave,
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear—
Approach this shrine, and worship here.

by Robert Burns.

Change Me, O Heav'Ns

Change me, O heav'ns, into the ruby stone,
That on my love's fair locks doth hang in gold:
Yet leave me speech, to her to make my moan;
And give me eyes, her beauties to behold.
Or, if you will not make my flesh a stone,
Make her hard heart seem flesh, that now seems none.

by John Wilbye.

THE cloud looked in at the window,
And said to the day, 'Be dark!'
And the roguish rain tapped hard on the pane,
To stifle the song of the lark.
The wind sprang up in the tree tops
And shrieked with a voice of death,
But the rough-voiced breeze, that shook the trees,
Was touched with a violet's breath.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

An eternal light glows dark-red,

A heart so red, in sin's pressure!

Hail, o Mary!

Your pale effigy has blossomed

And your mantled body glows,

O woman, Mary!

In sweet tortures your lap burns,

Then your eye smiles painfully and largely,

O mother, Mary!

by Georg Trakl.

Transformation Scene

A plain building was removed to a pleasant grove, and in a
few weeks it was transformed into the neatest frame
building in town.

As westward we of late did rove
We beheld in the maple grove
An old church now owned by Peter ;
In town there is no house looks neater,
For those bay windows do look sweeter
Than anything in prose or meter.

by James McIntyre.

But now life's face beholden
Seemed bright as heaven's bare brow
With hope of gifts withholden
But now.

From time's full-flowering bough
Each bud spake bloom to embolden
Love's heart, and seal his vow.

Joy's eyes grew deep with olden
Dreams, born he wist not how;
Thought's meanest garb was golden;
But now!

by Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Now Kind Now Coy Wth How Much Change

Now kind now coy wth how much change
You feed my fierce desire
As if to more extravagance
Youd manage up the fire
In vain if this your meaning be
In vain you use these wayes
Tis æqually as hard for me
To love you more as less
To other nymphs bequeath yr arts
Whose eyes more faintly shine
Or practise them at least on hearts
Which love you not like mine.

by Thomas Parnell.

Es War Ein Alter König

There was a king, now ageing,
With heart of lead, and head so grey.
He took a wife, the old king,
A young wife too, men say.
There was a handsome pageboy
With hair of gold, and thoughts so free:
He bore the silks with joy
That trailed behind the queen.
Do you know the ancient singing?
It rings so true: it rings so sweet!
Both had to die, of loving,
Of love that was too deep.

by Heinrich Heine.

REMEMBER me as I was then;
Turn from me now, but always see
The laughing shadowy girl who stood
At midnight by the flowering tree,
With eyes that love had made as bright
As the trembling stars of the summer night.
Turn from me now, but always hear
The muted laughter in the dew
Of that one year of youth we had,
The only youth we ever knew—
Turn from me now, or you will see
What other years have done to me.

by Sara Teasdale.

I KNOW not how to call you light,
Since I myself was lighter;
Nor can you blame my changing plight
Who were the first inviter.

I know not which began to range
Since we were never constant;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.

But this I know, the God of Love
Both shake his hand against us,
And scorning says we ne’er did prove
True passion—but pretences.

by William Roscoe.

There Are Days In June

There are days in June that seem to be December.
Thus sometimes the substance of this room
or more accurately the people in it who pray silently
start up in the midst of happiness and alter,
bewitched by a murmur from the calm foliage.

Our hearts are shifting as the winds
changing,
pliable as gold.

See this windless sail,
motionless?
Almost before one feels the subtle breeze,
it stirs up
and slips away.

by Francis Jammes.

The Sonnets To Orpheus: Xix

Though the world keeps changing its form
as fast as a cloud, still
what is accomplished falls home
to the Primeval.

Over the change and the passing,
larger and freer,
soars your eternal song,
god with the lyre.

Never has grief been possesed,
never has love been learned,
and what removes us in death

is not revealed.
Only the song through the land
hallows and heals.


Translated by Stephen Mitchell

by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Change And Death

We build but for change and for death,
To whom a like homage pay glory and shame;
For something must pass to give being to both.
All things are rounded by change, and are perishing—
Even the God-builded frame of the world.
The glories of life, as they shine,
But illumine a path to the gloom of the grave,
And the winter of shame is soon over and gone!
Of all we inherit, behold the inheritors!
Throned on the endless successions of Time.

by Charles Harpur.

O alter Duft aus Märchenzeit,
Berauschest wieder meine Sinne;
Ein närrisch Heer von Schelmerein
Durchschwirrt die leichte Luft.

Ein glückhaft Wünschen macht mich froh
Nach Freuden, die ich lang verachtet:
O alter Duft aus Märchenzeit,
Berauschest wieder mich!

All meinen Unmut gab ich preis;
Aus meinem sonnumrahmten Fenster
Beschau ich frei die liebe Welt
Und träum hinaus in selge Weiten...
O alter Duft - aus Märchenzeit!

by Albert Giraud.

The Change Has Come

THE change has come, and Helen sleeps—
Not sleeps; but wakes to greater deeps
Of wisdom, glory, truth, and light,
Than ever blessed her seeking sight,
In this low, long, lethargic night,
Worn out with strife
Which men call life.
The change has come, and who would say
'I would it were not come to-day'?
What were the respite till to-morrow?
Postponement of a certain sorrow,
From which each passing day would borrow!
Let grief be dumb,
The change has come.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

A Change Of Air

Now, a man in Oodnadatta
He grew fat, and he grew fatter,
Though he hardly had a thing to eat for dinner;
While a man in Booboorowie
Often sat and wondered how he
Could prevent himself from growing any thinner.

So the man from Oodnadatta
He came down to Booboorowie,
Where he rapidly grew flatter;
And the folk will tell you how he
Urged the man from Booboorowie
To go up to Oodnadatta -
Where he lived awhile, and now he
Is considerably fatter.

by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis.

Above the Bright Blue Sky

There's a Friend for little children
Above the bright blue sky,
A Friend who never changes
Whose love will never die;
Our earthly friends may fail us,
And change with changing years,
This Friend is always worthy
Of that dear name he bears.

There's a home for little children
Above the bright blue sky,
Where Jesus reigns in glory,
A home of peace and joy;
No home on earth is like it,
Nor can with it compare;
And everyone is happy,
Nor could be happier there.

by Albert Midlane.

Change Should Breed Change

NEW doth the sun appear,
   The mountains' snows decay,
Crown'd with frail flowers forth comes the baby year.
   My soul, time posts away;
   And thou yet in that frost
   Which flower and fruit hath lost,
As if all here immortal were, dost stay.
   For shame! thy powers awake,
Look to that Heaven which never night makes black,
And there at that immortal sun's bright rays,
Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days!

by William Henry Drummond.

On Change Of Weather

And were it for thy profit, to obtain
All sunshine? No vicissitude of rain?
Think'st thou that thy laborious plough requires
Not winter frosts as well as summer fires?
There must be both: sometimes these hearts of ours
Must have the sweet, the seasonable showers
Of tears; sometimes the frost of chill despair
Makes our desired sunshine seem more fair;
Weathers that most oppose the flesh and blood
Are such as help to make our harvest good.
We may not choose, great God: it is thy task;
We know not what to have, nor how to ask

by Francis Quarles.

I Apprehend You...

I apprehend You. The years pass by -
Yet in constant form, I apprehend You.

The whole horizon is aflame - impossibly sharp,
And mute, I wait, - with longing and with love.

The whole horizon is aflame, and your appearance near.
And yet I fear that You will change your form,

Give rise to impudent suspicion
By changing Your familiar contours in the end.

Oh, how I'll fall - so low and bitter,
Defeated by my fatal dreams!

How sharp is the horizon! Radiance is near.
And yet I fear that You will change your form.

by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok.

The voice which I did more esteem
Than music in her sweetest key,
Those eyes which unto me did seem
More comfortable than the day,
These now by me as they have been
Shall never more be heard or seen,
But what I once enjoyed in them
Shall seem hereafter as a dream.

All earthly comforts vanish thus,
So little hold of them have we;
That we from them, or they from us,
May in a moment vanished be:
Yet we are neither just nor wise,
If present mercies we despise;
Or mind not how there may be made
A thankful use of what we had.

by George Wither.

I Cannot Change, As Others Do

I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move
A surer way I'll try:
And to revenge my slighted love,
Will still love on, will still love on, and die.

When, killed with grief, Amintas lies
And you to mind shall call,
The sighs that now unpitied rise,
The tears that vainly fall,
That welcome hour that ends this smart
Will then begin your pain;
For such a fauthful tender heart
Can never break, can never break in vain.

by Lord John Wilmot.

LOVE used to carry a bow, you know,
But now he carries a taper;
It is either a length of wax aglow,
Or a twist of lighted paper.
I pondered a little about the scamp,
And then I decided to follow
His wandering journey to field and camp,
Up hill, down dale or hollow.
I dogged the rollicking, gay, young blade
In every species of weather;
Till, leading me straight to the home of a maid
He left us there together.
And then I saw it, oh, sweet surprise,
The taper it set a-burning
The love-light brimming my lady's eyes,
And my heart with the fire of yearning.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

Sonnet 76: Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride?

Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods, and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent.
For as the sun is daily new and old,
So is my love still telling what is told.

by William Shakespeare.

Sonnet 123: No, Time, Thou Shalt Not Boast That I Do Change

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wond'ring at the present, nor the past,
For thy records, and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste:
This I do vow and this shall ever be:
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.

by William Shakespeare.

It is the time when, by the forest falls,
The touch-me-nots hang fairy folly-caps;
When ferns and flowers fill the lichened laps
Of rocks with colour, rich as orient shawls:
And in my heart I hear a voice that calls
Me woodward, where the hamadryad wraps
Her limbs in bark, and, bubbling in the saps,
Sings the sweet Greek of Pan's old madrigals:
There is a gleam that lures me up the stream
A Naiad swimming with wet limbs of light?
Perfume that leads me on from dream to dream
An Oread's footprints fragrant with her flight?
And, lo! meseems I am a Faun again,
Part of the myths that I pursue in vain.

by Madison Julius Cawein.

Father! there is no change to live with Thee,
Save that in Christ I grow from day to day,
In each new word I hear, each thing I see,
I but rejoicing hasten on the way;
The morning comes with blushes overspread,
And I new-wakened find a morn within;
And in its modest dawn around me shed,
Thou hear'st the prayer and the ascending hymn;
Hour follows hour, the lengthening shades descend,
Yet they could never reach as far as me,
Did not thy love thy kind protection lend,
That I a child might sleep awhile on Thee,
Till to the light restored by gentle sleep
With new-found zeal I might thy precepts keep.

by Jones Very.

I Wait For You...

I wait for you. The years in silence pass
And as the image, one, I wait for you again.

The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass,
I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain.

The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast,
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet,

And will initiate the challenging mistrust
By changing features, used, at long awaited end.

Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine,
Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set!

The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine!
But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet.

by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok.

Hurrying for ever in their restless flight
The generations of earth's teeming womb
Rise into being and lapse into the tomb
Like transient bubbles sparkling in the light;
They sink in quick succession out of sight
Into the thick insuperable gloom
Our futile lives in flashing by illume--
Lightning which mocks the darkness of the night.

Nay--but consider, though we change and die,
If men must pass shall Man not still remain?
As the unnumbered drops of summer rain
Whose changing particles unchanged on high,
Fixed, in perpetual motion, yet maintain
The mystic bow emblazoned on the sky.

by Mathilde Blind.

The Cold Change

In the cold change which time hath wrought on love
(The snowy winter of his summer prime),
Should a chance sigh or sudden tear-drop move
Thy heart to memory of the olden time;
Turn not to gaze on me with pitying eyes,
Nor mock me with a withered hope renewed;
But from the bower we both have loved, arise
And leave me to my barren solitude!
What boots it that a momentary flame
Shoots from the ashes of a dying fire?
We gaze upon the hearth from whence it came,
And know the exhausted embers must expire:
Therefore no pity, or my heart will break;
Be cold, be careless-for thy past love's sake!

by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton.

He Mourns For The Change That Has Come Upon Him And His Beloved, And Longs For The End Of The World

DO you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?
I have been changed to a hound with one red ear;
I have been in the Path of Stones and the Wood of Thorns,
For somebody hid hatred and hope and desire and fear
Under my feet that they follow you night and day.
A man with a hazel wand came without sound;
He changed me suddenly; I was looking another way;
And now my calling is but the calling of a hound;
And Time and Birth and Change are hurrying by.
I would that the Boar without bristles had come from the West
And had rooted the sun and moon and stars out of the sky
And lay in the darkness, grunting, and turning to his rest.

by William Butler Yeats.

O, Time And Change, They Range And Range

O, Time and Change, they range and range
From sunshine round to thunder! -
They glance and go as the great winds blow,
And the best of our dreams drive under:
For Time and Change estrange, estrange -
And, now they have looked and seen us,
O, we that were dear, we are all-too near
With the thick of the world between us.

O, Death and Time, they chime and chime
Like bells at sunset falling! -
They end the song, they right the wrong,
They set the old echoes calling:
For Death and Time bring on the prime
Of God's own chosen weather,
And we lie in the peace of the Great Release
As once in the grass together.

by William Ernest Henley.

The House Of Change

Was it last Autumn only, when I stood
At the field’s edge, and watched the red glow creep
Among the leaves, and saw the swift flame sweep
From spruce to hemlock, till the living wood
Became a devastated solitude?


For now, behold, old seeds, long years asleep,
Wake; and a legion of young birches leap
To life, and tell the ashes life is good.
O Love of long ago, when this mad fire
Is over, and the ruins of my soul


With the Spring wind the old quest would resume,—
When age knocks at the inn of youth’s desire,
Shall the new growth, now worthier of the goal,
Find still untenanted the chosen room?

by Francis Joseph Sherman.

The Brook Rhine

SMALL current of the wilds afar from men,
Changing and sudden as a baby's mood;
Now a green babbling rivulet in the wood,
Now loitering broad and shallow through the glen,
Or threading 'mid the naked shoals, and then
Brattling against the stones, half mist, half flood,
Between the mountains where the storm-clouds brood;
And each change but to wake or sleep again;
Pass on, young stream, the world has need of thee;
Far hence a mighty river on its breast
Bears the deep-laden vessels to the sea;
Far hence wide waters feed the vines and corn.
Pass on, small stream, to so great purpose born,
On to the distant toil, the distant rest.

by Augusta Davies Webster.