General Books

In the Factory Oh, here in the shop the machines roar so wildly,That oft, unaware that I am, or have been,I sink and am lost in the terrible tumult;And void is my soul… I am but a machine.I work and I work and I work, never ceasing;Create and create things from morning till e'en;For what?—and for whom—Oh, I know not! Oh, ask not!Who ever has heard of a conscious machine? No, here is no... more...

Who killed Cock Robin?With my bow and arrow,I, said the Sparrow,I kill'd Cock Robin.Who saw him die?With my little eye,I, said the Fly,I saw him die.Who caught his blood?With my little dish,I, said the Fish,I caught his blood.Who'll make his shroud?With my thread and needle,I, said the Beetle,I'll make his shroud.Who'll dig his grave?With my spade and trowel,I, said the Owl,I'll... more...

CANTO XI "O thou Almighty Father, who dost makeThe heavens thy dwelling, not in bounds confin'd,But that with love intenser there thou view'stThy primal effluence, hallow'd be thy name:Join each created being to extolThy might, for worthy humblest thanks and praiseIs thy blest Spirit.  May thy kingdom's peaceCome unto us; for we, unless it come,With all our striving thither... more...

NO doubt you have heard how the grasshoppers’ feasts“Excited the spleen of the birds and the beasts;”How the peacock and turkey “flew into a passion,”On finding that insects “pretended to fashion.”Now, I often have thought it exceedingly hard,That nought should be said of the beasts by the bard;Who, by some strange neglect, has omitted to stateThat the quadrupeds gave a magnificent... more...

CANTO I O'er better waves to speed her rapid courseThe light bark of my genius lifts the sail,Well pleas'd to leave so cruel sea behind;And of that second region will I sing,In which the human spirit from sinful blotIs purg'd, and for ascent to Heaven prepares. Here, O ye hallow'd Nine! for in your trainI follow, here the deadened strain revive;Nor let Calliope refuse to soundA... more...

PREFACE. In every work regard the writer's end,Since none can compass more than they intend. Pope.This volume is far indeed from being a scientific treatise On Flowers and Flower-Gardens:--it is mere gossip in print upon a pleasant subject. But I hope it will not be altogether useless. If I succeed in my object I shall consider that I have gossipped to some purpose. On several points--such as that... more...

BEING A WORD ON BEHALF OF PATCHOULI. AN ingenuous reviewer once described some verses of mine as "unwholesome," because, he said, they had "a faint smell of Patchouli about them." I am a little sorry he chose Patchouli, for that is not a particularly favourite scent with me. If he had only chosen Peau d'Espagne, which has a subtle meaning, or Lily of the Valley, with which I have... more...

DEDICATION Bob Southey! You're a poet, poet laureate,And representative of all the race.Although 'tis true that you turned out a Tory atLast, yours has lately been a common case.And now my epic renegade, what are ye atWith all the lakers, in and out of place?A nest of tuneful persons, to my eyeLike four and twenty blackbirds in a pye, Which pye being opened they began to sing'(This old... more...

Old Mother Duck has hatched a broodOf ducklings, small and callow:Their little wings are short, their downIs mottled gray and yellow. There is a quiet little stream,That runs into the moat,Where tall green sedges spread their leaves,And water-lilies float. Close by the margin of the brook,The old duck made her nest,Of straw, and leaves, and withered grass,And down from her own breast. View larger... more...

A FATHER OF WOMEN Ad Sororem E. B. “Thy father was transfused into thy blood.” Dryden: Ode to Mrs. Anne Killigrew.       Our father works in us,The daughters of his manhood.  Not undoneIs he, not wasted, though transmuted thus,      And though he left no son.       Therefore on him I cryTo arm me: “For my delicate mind a casque,A breastplate for my heart, courage to... more...