--- /dev/null
+/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
+// Name: wxpoem.cpp
+// Purpose: A small C++ program which displays a random poem on
+// execution. It also allows search for poems containing a
+// string.
+// It requires winpoem.dat and creates winpoem.idx.
+// Original version (WinPoem) written in 1994.
+// This has not been rewritten in a long time so
+// beware, inelegant code!
+// Author: Julian Smart
+// Created: 12/12/98
+// RCS-ID: $Id$
+// Copyright: (c) 1998 Julian Smart
+// Licence: wxWindows licence
+/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
+
+#ifdef __GNUG__
+#pragma implementation "wxpoem.h"
+#endif
+
+// For compilers that support precompilation, includes "wx.h".
+#include "wx/wxprec.h"
+
+#ifdef __BORLANDC__
+#pragma hdrstop
+#endif
+
+#ifndef WX_PRECOMP
+#include "wx/defs.h"
+#include "wx/list.h"
+#include "wx/utils.h"
+#endif
+
+#include "wx/help.h"
+
+#include "wxpoem.h"
+
+#include <stdio.h>
+#include <stdlib.h>
+#include <string.h>
+#include <time.h>
+
+#define buf_size 10000
+#define DEFAULT_POETRY_DAT "wxpoem"
+#define DEFAULT_POETRY_IND "wxpoem"
+#define DEFAULT_CHAR_HEIGHT 18
+#define DEFAULT_FONT "Swiss"
+#define DEFAULT_X_POS 0
+#define DEFAULT_Y_POS 0
+#define BORDER_SIZE 30
+#define THIN_LINE_BORDER 10
+#define THICK_LINE_BORDER 16
+#define THICK_LINE_WIDTH 2
+#define SHADOW_OFFSET 1
+#define X_SIZE 30
+#define Y_SIZE 20
+
+static char *poem_buffer; // Storage for each poem
+static char line[150]; // Storage for a line
+static char title[150]; // Remember the title
+static char *search_string = NULL; // The search string
+static int pages[30]; // For multipage poems -
+ // store the start of each page
+static long last_poem_start = 0; // Start of last found poem
+static long last_find = -1; // Point in file of last found
+ // search string
+static bool search_ok = FALSE; // Search was successful
+static bool same_search = FALSE; // Searching on same string
+
+static long poem_index[600]; // Index of poem starts
+static long nitems = 0; // Number of poems
+static int desired_char_height = DEFAULT_CHAR_HEIGHT; // Desired height
+static char DesiredFont[64]; // Chosen font
+static int char_height = DEFAULT_CHAR_HEIGHT; // Actual height
+static int index_ptr = -1; // Pointer into index
+static int poem_height, poem_width; // Size of poem
+static int XPos; // Startup X position
+static int YPos; // Startup Y position
+static int pointSize = 12; // Font size
+
+static char *index_filename = NULL; // Index filename
+static char *data_filename = NULL; // Data filename
+static char error_buf[300]; // Error message buffer
+static bool loaded_ok = FALSE; // Poem loaded ok
+static bool index_ok = FALSE; // Index loaded ok
+
+static bool paging = FALSE; // Are we paging?
+static int current_page = 0; // Currently viewed page
+
+wxIcon *Corner1 = NULL;
+wxIcon *Corner2 = NULL;
+wxIcon *Corner3 = NULL;
+wxIcon *Corner4 = NULL;
+
+// Fonts
+wxFont *NormalFont = NULL;
+wxFont *BoldFont = NULL;
+wxFont *ItalicFont = NULL;
+
+// Pens
+wxPen *GreyPen = NULL;
+wxPen *DarkGreyPen = NULL;
+wxPen *WhitePen = NULL;
+
+// Backing bitmap
+wxBitmap *backingBitmap = NULL;
+
+void PoetryError(char *, char *caption="wxPoem Error");
+void PoetryNotify(char *Msg, char *caption="wxPoem");
+void TryLoadIndex();
+bool LoadPoem(char *, long);
+int GetIndex();
+int LoadIndex(char *);
+bool Compile(void);
+void WritePreferences();
+void ReadPreferences();
+void FindMax(int *max_thing, int thing);
+void CreateFonts();
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+void CopyToClipboard(HWND, char *);
+#endif
+
+wxMenu *popupMenu = NULL;
+void PopupFunction(wxMenu& menu, wxCommandEvent& event);
+
+wxHelpController *HelpController = NULL;
+
+// A macro needed for some compilers (AIX) that need 'main' to be defined
+// in the application itself.
+IMPLEMENT_WXWIN_MAIN
+
+IMPLEMENT_APP(MyApp)
+
+MainWindow *TheMainWindow = NULL;
+
+// Create the fonts
+void CreateFonts()
+{
+ NormalFont = wxTheFontList->FindOrCreateFont(pointSize, wxSWISS, wxNORMAL, wxNORMAL);
+ BoldFont = wxTheFontList->FindOrCreateFont(pointSize, wxSWISS, wxNORMAL, wxBOLD);
+ ItalicFont = wxTheFontList->FindOrCreateFont(pointSize, wxSWISS, wxITALIC, wxNORMAL);
+}
+
+BEGIN_EVENT_TABLE(MainWindow, wxFrame)
+ EVT_CLOSE(MainWindow::OnCloseWindow)
+ EVT_CHAR(MainWindow::OnChar)
+END_EVENT_TABLE()
+
+MainWindow::MainWindow(wxFrame *frame, wxWindowID id, const wxString& title,
+ const wxPoint& pos, const wxSize& size, long style):
+ wxFrame(frame, id, title, pos, size, style)
+{
+}
+
+// Read the poetry buffer, either for finding the size
+// or for writing to a bitmap (not to the window directly,
+// since that displays messily)
+// If DrawIt is true, we draw, otherwise we just determine the
+// size the window should be.
+void MainWindow::ScanBuffer(wxDC *dc, bool DrawIt, int *max_x, int *max_y)
+{
+ int i = pages[current_page];
+ int ch = -1;
+ int x = 10;
+ int y = 0;
+ int j;
+ char *line_ptr;
+ int curr_width = 0;
+ bool page_break = FALSE;
+
+ int width = 0;
+ int height = 0;
+
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ y = (*max_y - poem_height)/2;
+ width = *max_x;
+ height = *max_y;
+ }
+
+ if (DrawIt && wxColourDisplay())
+ {
+ dc->SetBrush(*wxLIGHT_GREY_BRUSH);
+ dc->SetPen(*GreyPen);
+ dc->DrawRectangle(0, 0, width, height);
+ dc->SetBackgroundMode(wxTRANSPARENT);
+ }
+
+ // See what ACTUAL char height is
+ dc->SetFont(* NormalFont);
+ long xx;
+ long yy;
+ dc->GetTextExtent("X", &xx, &yy);
+ char_height = (int)yy;
+
+ if (current_page == 0)
+ title[0] = 0;
+ else if (title[0] != 0)
+ {
+ dc->SetFont(* BoldFont);
+ dc->GetTextExtent(title, &xx, &yy);
+ FindMax(&curr_width, (int)xx);
+
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ x = (width - xx)/2;
+ dc->SetFont(* BoldFont);
+
+ // Change text to BLACK!
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxBLACK);
+ dc->DrawText(title, x, y);
+ // Change text to WHITE!
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxWHITE);
+ dc->DrawText(title, x-SHADOW_OFFSET, y-SHADOW_OFFSET);
+ }
+ y += char_height;
+ y += char_height;
+ }
+
+ while (ch != 0 && !page_break)
+ {
+ j = 0;
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ while (((ch = poem_buffer[i]) != 13) && (ch != 0))
+#else
+ while (((ch = poem_buffer[i]) != 10) && (ch != 0))
+#endif
+ {
+ line[j] = ch;
+ j ++;
+ i ++;
+ }
+
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ if (ch == 13)
+#else
+ if (ch == 10)
+#endif
+ {
+ ch = -1;
+ i ++;
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ // Add another to skip the linefeed
+ i ++;
+#endif
+ // If a single newline on its own, put a space in
+ if (j == 0)
+ {
+ line[j] = ' ';
+ j ++;
+ line[j] = 0;
+ }
+ }
+
+ if (j > 0)
+ {
+ line[j] = 0;
+ if (line[0] == '@')
+ {
+ switch (line[1])
+ {
+ case 'P':
+ paging = TRUE;
+ page_break = TRUE;
+ break;
+
+ case 'T':
+ dc->SetFont(* BoldFont);
+ line_ptr = line+3;
+
+ strcpy(title, line_ptr);
+ strcat(title, " (cont'd)");
+
+ dc->GetTextExtent(line_ptr, &xx, &yy);
+ FindMax(&curr_width, (int)xx);
+
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ x = (width - xx)/2;
+ dc->SetFont(* BoldFont);
+
+ // Change text to BLACK!
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxBLACK);
+ dc->DrawText(line_ptr, x, y);
+
+ // Change text to WHITE!
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxWHITE);
+ dc->DrawText(line_ptr, x-SHADOW_OFFSET, y-SHADOW_OFFSET);
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxWHITE);
+ }
+ break;
+
+ case 'A':
+ line_ptr = line+3;
+ dc->SetFont(* ItalicFont);
+
+ dc->GetTextExtent(line_ptr, &xx, &yy);
+ FindMax(&curr_width, (int)xx);
+
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ x = (width - xx)/2;
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxBLACK);
+ dc->DrawText(line_ptr, x, y);
+ }
+ break;
+
+ // Default: just ignore this line
+ default:
+ y -= char_height;
+ }
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ dc->SetFont(* NormalFont);
+
+ dc->GetTextExtent(line, &xx, &yy);
+ FindMax(&curr_width, (int)xx);
+
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ int x = (int)((width - xx)/2.0);
+ dc->SetFont(* NormalFont);
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxBLACK);
+ dc->DrawText(line, (float)x, (float)y);
+ }
+ }
+ }
+ y += char_height;
+ }
+
+ // Write (cont'd)
+ if (page_break)
+ {
+ char *cont = "(cont'd)";
+
+ dc->SetFont(* NormalFont);
+
+ dc->GetTextExtent(cont, &xx, &yy);
+ FindMax(&curr_width, (int)xx);
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ int x = (int)((width - xx)/2.0);
+ dc->SetFont(* NormalFont);
+ dc->SetTextForeground(* wxBLACK);
+ dc->DrawText(cont, (float)x, (float)y);
+ }
+ y += 2*char_height;
+ }
+
+ *max_x = (int)curr_width;
+ *max_y = (int)(y-char_height);
+
+ if (page_break)
+ pages[current_page+1] = i;
+ else
+ paging = FALSE;
+
+ if (DrawIt)
+ {
+ // Draw dark grey thick border
+ if (wxColourDisplay())
+ {
+ dc->SetBrush(*wxGREY_BRUSH);
+ dc->SetPen(*wxGREY_PEN);
+
+ // Left side
+ dc->DrawRectangle(0, 0, THIN_LINE_BORDER, height);
+ // Top side
+ dc->DrawRectangle(THIN_LINE_BORDER, 0, width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER);
+ // Right side
+ dc->DrawRectangle(width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER, width, height-THIN_LINE_BORDER);
+ // Bottom side
+ dc->DrawRectangle(THIN_LINE_BORDER, height-THIN_LINE_BORDER, width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, height);
+ }
+ // Draw border
+ // Have grey background, plus 3-d border -
+ // One black rectangle.
+ // Inside this, left and top sides - dark grey. Bottom and right -
+ // white.
+
+ // Change pen to black
+ dc->SetPen(*wxBLACK_PEN);
+ dc->DrawLine(THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER, width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER);
+ dc->DrawLine(width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER, width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, height-THIN_LINE_BORDER);
+ dc->DrawLine(width-THIN_LINE_BORDER, height-THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER, height-THIN_LINE_BORDER);
+ dc->DrawLine(THIN_LINE_BORDER, height-THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER, THIN_LINE_BORDER);
+
+ // Right and bottom white lines - 'grey' (black!) if
+ // we're running on a mono display.
+ if (wxColourDisplay())
+ dc->SetPen(*WhitePen);
+ else
+ dc->SetPen(*DarkGreyPen);
+
+ dc->DrawLine(width-THICK_LINE_BORDER, THICK_LINE_BORDER,
+ width-THICK_LINE_BORDER, height-THICK_LINE_BORDER);
+ dc->DrawLine(width-THICK_LINE_BORDER, height-THICK_LINE_BORDER,
+ THICK_LINE_BORDER, height-THICK_LINE_BORDER);
+
+ // Left and top grey lines
+ dc->SetPen(*DarkGreyPen);
+ dc->DrawLine(THICK_LINE_BORDER, height-THICK_LINE_BORDER,
+ THICK_LINE_BORDER, THICK_LINE_BORDER);
+ dc->DrawLine(THICK_LINE_BORDER, THICK_LINE_BORDER,
+ width-THICK_LINE_BORDER, THICK_LINE_BORDER);
+
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ // Draw icons
+ dc->DrawIcon(* Corner1, 0.0, 0.0);
+ dc->DrawIcon(* Corner2, (float)(width-32.0), 0.0);
+
+ int y2 = height - 32;
+ int x2 = (width-32);
+ dc->DrawIcon(* Corner3, 0.0, (float)y2);
+ dc->DrawIcon(* Corner4, (float)x2, (float)y2);
+#endif
+ }
+}
+
+// Get an index (randomly generated) and load the poem
+void MainWindow::GetIndexLoadPoem(void)
+{
+ if (index_ok)
+ index_ptr = GetIndex();
+
+ if (index_ptr > -1)
+ loaded_ok = LoadPoem(data_filename, -1);
+}
+
+// Find the size of the poem and resize the window accordingly
+void MainWindow::Resize(void)
+{
+ wxClientDC dc(canvas);
+
+ // Get the poem size
+ ScanBuffer(& dc, FALSE, &poem_width, &poem_height);
+ int x = poem_width + (2*BORDER_SIZE);
+ int y = poem_height + (2*BORDER_SIZE);
+
+ SetClientSize(x, y);
+
+ // In case client size isn't what we set it to...
+ int xx, yy;
+ GetClientSize(&xx, &yy);
+
+ wxMemoryDC memDC;
+ if (backingBitmap) delete backingBitmap;
+ backingBitmap = new wxBitmap(x, yy);
+ memDC.SelectObject(* backingBitmap);
+
+ memDC.Clear();
+ TheMainWindow->ScanBuffer(&memDC, TRUE, &xx, &yy);
+}
+
+// Which is more?
+void FindMax(int *max_thing, int thing)
+{
+ if (thing > *max_thing)
+ *max_thing = thing;
+}
+
+// Next page/poem
+void MainWindow::NextPage(void)
+{
+ if (paging)
+ current_page ++;
+ else
+ {
+ current_page = 0;
+ GetIndexLoadPoem();
+ }
+ Resize();
+}
+
+// Previous page
+void MainWindow::PreviousPage(void)
+{
+ if (current_page > 0)
+ {
+ current_page --;
+ Resize();
+ }
+}
+
+// Search for a string
+void MainWindow::Search(bool ask)
+{
+ long position;
+
+ if (ask || !search_string)
+ {
+ wxString s = wxGetTextFromUser("Enter search string", "Search", (const char*) search_string);
+ if (s != "")
+ {
+ if (search_string) delete[] search_string;
+ search_string = copystring(s);
+ search_ok = TRUE;
+ } else search_ok = FALSE;
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ same_search = TRUE;
+ search_ok = TRUE;
+ }
+
+ if (search_string && search_ok)
+ {
+ position = DoSearch();
+ if (position > -1)
+ {
+ loaded_ok = LoadPoem(data_filename, position);
+ Resize();
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ last_poem_start = 0;
+ PoetryNotify("Search string not found.");
+ }
+ }
+}
+
+// Copy a string to the clipboard
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+void CopyToClipboard(HWND handle, char *s)
+{
+ int length = strlen(s);
+ HANDLE hGlobalMemory = GlobalAlloc(GHND, (DWORD) length + 1);
+ if (hGlobalMemory)
+ {
+#ifdef __WINDOWS_386__
+ LPSTR lpGlobalMemory = MK_FP32(GlobalLock(hGlobalMemory));
+#else
+ LPSTR lpGlobalMemory = (LPSTR)GlobalLock(hGlobalMemory);
+#endif
+ int i, j = 0;
+ for (i = 0; i < length; i ++)
+ {
+ if (s[i] == '@')
+ {
+ i++;
+ switch (s[i])
+ {
+ case 'P':
+ break;
+ case 'T':
+ case 'A':
+ default:
+ i ++;
+ break;
+ }
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ lpGlobalMemory[j] = s[i];
+ j ++;
+ }
+ }
+
+ GlobalUnlock(hGlobalMemory);
+ OpenClipboard(handle);
+ EmptyClipboard();
+ SetClipboardData(CF_TEXT, hGlobalMemory);
+ CloseClipboard();
+ }
+}
+#endif
+
+bool MyApp::OnInit()
+{
+ poem_buffer = new char[buf_size];
+
+ GreyPen = new wxPen("LIGHT GREY", THICK_LINE_WIDTH, wxSOLID);
+ DarkGreyPen = new wxPen("GREY", THICK_LINE_WIDTH, wxSOLID);
+ WhitePen = new wxPen("WHITE", THICK_LINE_WIDTH, wxSOLID);
+
+ HelpController = new wxHelpController();
+ HelpController->Initialize("wxpoem");
+
+ CreateFonts();
+
+ ReadPreferences();
+
+ // Seed the random number generator
+ time_t current_time;
+
+ (void)time(¤t_time);
+ srand((unsigned int)current_time);
+
+// randomize();
+ pages[0] = 0;
+
+ TheMainWindow = new MainWindow(NULL, -1, "wxPoem", wxPoint(XPos, YPos), wxSize(100, 100), wxCAPTION|wxMINIMIZE_BOX|wxSYSTEM_MENU);
+
+#ifdef wx_x
+ TheMainWindow->SetIcon(Icon("wxpoem"));
+#endif
+
+ TheMainWindow->canvas = new MyCanvas(TheMainWindow, -1, wxDefaultPosition, wxDefaultSize);
+
+ popupMenu = new wxMenu("", (wxFunction)PopupFunction);
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_NEXT, "Next poem/page");
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_PREVIOUS, "Previous page");
+ popupMenu->AppendSeparator();
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_SEARCH, "Search");
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_NEXT_MATCH, "Next match");
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_COPY, "Copy to clipboard");
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_MINIMIZE, "Minimize");
+ popupMenu->AppendSeparator();
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_BIGGER_TEXT, "Bigger text");
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_SMALLER_TEXT, "Smaller text");
+ popupMenu->AppendSeparator();
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_ABOUT, "About wxPoem");
+ popupMenu->AppendSeparator();
+ popupMenu->Append(POEM_EXIT, "Exit");
+
+ if (argc > 1)
+ {
+ index_filename = copystring(argv[1]);
+ data_filename = copystring(argv[1]);
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ index_filename = DEFAULT_POETRY_IND;
+ data_filename = DEFAULT_POETRY_DAT;
+ }
+ TryLoadIndex();
+
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ Corner1 = new wxIcon("icon_1");
+ Corner2 = new wxIcon("icon_2");
+ Corner3 = new wxIcon("icon_3");
+ Corner4 = new wxIcon("icon_4");
+#endif
+
+ TheMainWindow->GetIndexLoadPoem();
+ TheMainWindow->Resize();
+ TheMainWindow->Show(TRUE);
+
+ return TRUE;
+}
+
+int MyApp::OnExit()
+{
+ if (backingBitmap)
+ delete backingBitmap;
+ delete HelpController;
+ delete popupMenu;
+ delete GreyPen;
+ delete DarkGreyPen;
+ delete WhitePen;
+
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ delete Corner1;
+ delete Corner2;
+ delete Corner3;
+ delete Corner4;
+#endif
+ delete NormalFont;
+ delete BoldFont;
+ delete ItalicFont;
+ delete poem_buffer;
+
+ return 0;
+}
+
+void MainWindow::OnCloseWindow(wxCloseEvent& event)
+{
+ WritePreferences();
+ this->Destroy();
+}
+
+void MainWindow::OnChar(wxKeyEvent& event)
+{
+ canvas->OnChar(event);
+}
+
+BEGIN_EVENT_TABLE(MyCanvas, wxPanel)
+ EVT_MOUSE_EVENTS(MyCanvas::OnMouseEvent)
+ EVT_CHAR(MyCanvas::OnChar)
+ EVT_PAINT(MyCanvas::OnPaint)
+END_EVENT_TABLE()
+
+// Define a constructor for my canvas
+MyCanvas::MyCanvas(wxFrame *frame, wxWindowID id, const wxPoint& pos, const wxSize& size):
+ wxPanel(frame, id, pos, size)
+{
+}
+
+// Define the repainting behaviour
+void MyCanvas::OnPaint(wxPaintEvent& event)
+{
+ wxPaintDC dc(this);
+
+ if (backingBitmap)
+ {
+ int xx, yy;
+ TheMainWindow->GetClientSize(&xx, &yy);
+
+ wxMemoryDC memDC;
+ memDC.SelectObject(* backingBitmap);
+ dc.Blit(0, 0, backingBitmap->GetWidth(), backingBitmap->GetHeight(), &memDC, 0, 0);
+ }
+}
+
+void MyCanvas::OnMouseEvent(wxMouseEvent& event)
+{
+ float x, y;
+ event.Position(&x, &y);
+ static int startPosX, startPosY, startFrameX, startFrameY;
+
+ event.Position(&x, &y);
+
+ if (event.RightDown())
+ {
+ // Versions from wxWin 1.67 are probably OK
+#if 0 // wx_motif
+ FakePopupMenu(popupMenu, x, y);
+#else
+ PopupMenu(popupMenu, x, y);
+#endif
+ }
+ else if (event.LeftDown())
+ {
+ this->CaptureMouse();
+ int x1 = (int)x;
+ int y1 = (int)y;
+ ClientToScreen(&x1, &y1);
+ startPosX = x1;
+ startPosY = y1;
+ GetParent()->GetPosition(&startFrameX, &startFrameY);
+ }
+ else if (event.LeftUp())
+ this->ReleaseMouse();
+ else if (event.Dragging() && event.LeftIsDown())
+ {
+ int x1 = (int)x;
+ int y1 = (int)y;
+ ClientToScreen(&x1, &y1);
+
+ int dX = x1 - startPosX;
+ int dY = y1 - startPosY;
+ GetParent()->Move(startFrameX + dX, startFrameY + dY);
+ }
+}
+
+// Process characters
+void MyCanvas::OnChar(wxKeyEvent& event)
+{
+ switch (event.KeyCode())
+ {
+ case 'n':
+ case 'N':
+ // Next match
+ TheMainWindow->Search(FALSE);
+ break;
+ case 's':
+ case 'S':
+ // New search
+ TheMainWindow->Search(TRUE);
+ break;
+ case WXK_SPACE:
+ // Another poem
+ TheMainWindow->NextPage();
+ break;
+ case 27:
+ TheMainWindow->Close(TRUE);
+ default:
+ break;
+ }
+ }
+
+// Load index file
+int LoadIndex(char *file_name)
+{
+ long data;
+ FILE *index_file;
+
+ int i = 0;
+ char buf[100];
+
+ if (file_name)
+ sprintf(buf, "%s.idx", file_name);
+ if (! (file_name && (index_file = fopen(buf, "r"))))
+ return 0;
+ else
+ {
+ fscanf(index_file, "%ld", &nitems);
+
+ for (i = 0; i < nitems; i++)
+ {
+ fscanf(index_file, "%ld", &data);
+ poem_index[i] = data;
+ }
+ fclose(index_file);
+
+ return 1;
+ }
+}
+
+// Get index
+int GetIndex()
+{
+ int indexn = 0;
+
+ indexn = (int)(rand() % nitems);
+
+ if ((indexn < 0) || (indexn > nitems))
+ { PoetryError("No such poem!");
+ return -1;
+ }
+ else
+ return indexn;
+}
+
+// Read preferences
+void ReadPreferences()
+{
+ wxGetResource("wxPoem", "FontSize", &pointSize);
+ wxGetResource("wxPoem", "X", &XPos);
+ wxGetResource("wxPoem", "Y", &YPos);
+}
+
+// Write preferences to disk
+void WritePreferences()
+{
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ TheMainWindow->GetPosition(&XPos, &YPos);
+ wxWriteResource("wxPoem", "FontSize", pointSize);
+ wxWriteResource("wxPoem", "X", XPos);
+ wxWriteResource("wxPoem", "Y", YPos);
+#endif
+}
+
+// Load a poem from given file, at given point in file.
+// If position is > -1, use this for the position in the
+// file, otherwise use index[index_ptr] to find the correct position.
+bool LoadPoem(char *file_name, long position)
+{
+ int ch = 0;
+ int i = 0;
+ int j = 0;
+ int indexn = 0;
+ char buf[100];
+ long data;
+ FILE *data_file;
+
+ paging = FALSE;
+ current_page = 0;
+
+ if (file_name)
+ sprintf(buf, "%s.dat", file_name);
+
+ if (! (file_name && (data_file = fopen(buf, "r"))))
+ {
+ sprintf(error_buf, "Data file %s not found.", buf);
+ PoetryError(error_buf);
+ return FALSE;
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ if (position > -1)
+ data = position;
+ else
+ data = poem_index[index_ptr];
+
+ fseek(data_file, data, SEEK_SET);
+
+ ch = 0;
+ i = 0;
+ while ((ch != EOF) && (ch != '#'))
+ {
+ ch = getc(data_file);
+ // Add a linefeed so it will copy to the clipboard ok
+ if (ch == 10)
+ {
+ poem_buffer[i] = 13;
+ i++;
+ }
+
+ poem_buffer[i] = ch;
+ i ++;
+
+ if (i == buf_size)
+ {
+ sprintf(error_buf, "%s", "Poetry buffer exceeded.");
+ PoetryError(error_buf);
+ return FALSE;
+ }
+ }
+ fclose(data_file);
+ poem_buffer[i-1] = 0;
+ return TRUE;
+ }
+}
+
+// Do the search
+long MainWindow::DoSearch(void)
+{
+ if (!search_string)
+ return FALSE;
+
+ FILE *file;
+ long i = 0;
+ int ch = 0;
+ char buf[100];
+ long find_start;
+ long previous_poem_start;
+
+ bool found = FALSE;
+ int search_length = strlen(search_string);
+
+ if (same_search)
+ {
+ find_start = last_find + 1;
+ previous_poem_start = last_poem_start;
+ }
+ else
+ {
+ find_start = 0;
+ last_poem_start = 0;
+ previous_poem_start = -1;
+ }
+
+ if (data_filename)
+ sprintf(buf, "%s.dat", data_filename);
+
+ if (! (data_filename && (file = fopen(buf, "r"))))
+ {
+ sprintf(error_buf, "Poetry data file %s not found\n", buf);
+ PoetryError(error_buf);
+ return FALSE;
+ }
+
+ fseek(file, find_start, SEEK_SET);
+
+ while ((ch != EOF) && !found)
+ {
+ ch = getc(file);
+ ch |= 0x0020; // Make lower case
+
+ // Only match if we're looking at a different poem
+ // (no point in displaying the same poem again)
+ if ((ch == search_string[i]) && (last_poem_start != previous_poem_start))
+ {
+ if (i == 0)
+ last_find = ftell(file);
+ if (i == search_length-1)
+ found = TRUE;
+ i ++;
+ }
+ else
+ i = 0;
+
+ if (ch == '#')
+ {
+ ch = getc(file);
+ last_poem_start = ftell(file);
+ }
+ }
+ fclose(file);
+ if (ch == EOF)
+ last_find = -1;
+
+ if (found)
+ {
+ return last_poem_start;
+ }
+ else
+ return -1;
+}
+
+// Set up poetry filenames, preferences, load the index
+// Load index (or compile it if none found)
+void TryLoadIndex()
+{
+ index_ok = LoadIndex(index_filename);
+ if (!index_ok || (nitems == 0))
+ {
+ PoetryError("Index file not found; will compile new one", "wxPoem");
+ index_ok = Compile();
+ }
+}
+
+// Error message
+void PoetryError(char *msg, char *caption)
+{
+ wxMessageBox(msg, caption, wxOK|wxICON_EXCLAMATION);
+}
+
+// Notification (change icon to something appropriate!)
+void PoetryNotify(char *Msg, char *caption)
+{
+ wxMessageBox(Msg, caption, wxOK | wxICON_INFORMATION);
+}
+
+// Build up and save an index into the poetry data file, for
+// rapid random access
+bool Compile(void)
+{
+ FILE *file;
+ long i = 0;
+ int j;
+ int ch = 0;
+ char buf[100];
+
+ if (data_filename)
+ sprintf(buf, "%s.dat", data_filename);
+
+ if (! (data_filename && (file = fopen(buf, "r"))))
+ {
+ sprintf(error_buf, "Poetry data file %s not found\n", buf);
+ PoetryError(error_buf);
+ return FALSE;
+ }
+
+ nitems = 0;
+
+ // Do first one (?)
+ poem_index[nitems] = 0;
+ nitems ++;
+
+ // Do rest
+ while (ch != EOF)
+ {
+ ch = getc(file);
+ i ++;
+ if (ch == '#')
+ {
+ ch = getc(file);
+ long data;
+ data = ftell(file);
+ poem_index[nitems] = data;
+ nitems ++;
+ }
+ }
+ fclose(file);
+
+ if (index_filename)
+ sprintf(buf, "%s.idx", index_filename);
+ if (! (data_filename && (file = fopen(buf, "w"))))
+ {
+ sprintf(error_buf, "Poetry index file %s cannot be created\n", buf);
+ PoetryError(error_buf);
+ return FALSE;
+ }
+
+ fprintf(file, "%ld\n\n", nitems);
+ for (j = 0; j < nitems; j++)
+ fprintf(file, "%ld\n", poem_index[j]);
+
+ fclose(file);
+ PoetryNotify("Poetry index compiled.");
+ return TRUE;
+}
+
+void PopupFunction(wxMenu& menu, wxCommandEvent& event)
+{
+ switch (event.m_commandInt)
+ {
+ case POEM_NEXT:
+ // Another poem/page
+ TheMainWindow->NextPage();
+ break;
+ case POEM_PREVIOUS:
+ // Previous page
+ TheMainWindow->PreviousPage();
+ break;
+ case POEM_SEARCH:
+ // Search - with dialog
+ TheMainWindow->Search(TRUE);
+ break;
+ case POEM_NEXT_MATCH:
+ // Search - without dialog (next match)
+ TheMainWindow->Search(FALSE);
+ break;
+ case POEM_MINIMIZE:
+ TheMainWindow->Iconize(TRUE);
+ break;
+#ifdef __WXMSW__
+ case POEM_COPY:
+ // Copy current poem to the clipboard
+ CopyToClipboard((HWND) TheMainWindow->GetHWND(), poem_buffer);
+ break;
+#endif
+ case POEM_COMPILE:
+ // Compile index
+ Compile();
+ break;
+ case POEM_BIGGER_TEXT:
+ {
+ pointSize ++;
+ CreateFonts();
+ TheMainWindow->Resize();
+ break;
+ }
+ case POEM_SMALLER_TEXT:
+ {
+ if (pointSize > 2)
+ {
+ pointSize --;
+ CreateFonts();
+ TheMainWindow->Resize();
+ }
+ break;
+ }
+ case POEM_HELP_CONTENTS:
+ {
+ HelpController->LoadFile("wxpoem");
+ HelpController->DisplayContents();
+ break;
+ }
+ case POEM_ABOUT:
+ {
+ (void)wxMessageBox("wxPoem Version 1.1\nJulian Smart (c) 1995",
+ "About wxPoem", wxOK, TheMainWindow);
+ break;
+ }
+ case POEM_EXIT:
+ // Exit
+ TheMainWindow->Close(TRUE);
+ break;
+ default:
+ break;
+ }
+}
--- /dev/null
+@T A Thunderstorm in Town
+
+She wore a new "terra-cotta" dress,
+And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,
+Within the hansom's dry recess,
+Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless
+We sat on, snug and warm.
+
+Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain
+And the glass that had screened our forms before
+Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
+I should have kissed her if the rain
+Had lasted a minute more.
+
+@A Thomas Hardy
+#
+They say my verse is sad: no wonder;
+Its narrow measure spans
+Tears of eternity, and sorrow,
+Not mine, but man's.
+
+This is for all ill-treated fellows
+Unborn and unbegot,
+For them to read when they're in trouble
+And I am not.
+
+@A A. E. Housman
+#
+@T On a Day's Stint
+
+And long ere dinner-time I have
+Full eight close pages wrote.
+What, Duty, hast thou now to crave?
+Well done, Sir Walter Scott!
+
+@A Sir Walter Scott
+#
+@T The Choir Boy
+
+And when he sang in choruses
+His voice o'ertopped the rest,
+Which is very inartistic,
+But the public like that best.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T For Johnny
+
+Do not despair
+For Johnny-head-air;
+He sleeps as sound
+As Johnny underground.
+
+Fetch out no shroud
+For Johnny-in-the-cloud;
+And keep your tears
+For him in after years.
+
+Better by far
+For Johnny-the-bright-star,
+To keep your head,
+And see his children fed.
+
+@A John Pudney
+#
+@T Cock-Crow
+
+Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
+To be cut down by the sharp axe of light, -
+Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
+Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
+And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
+Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
+Each facing each as in a coat of arms:
+The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T After Long Silence
+
+Speech after long silence; it is right,
+All other lovers being estranged or dead,
+Unfriendly lamplight hid under its shade,
+The curtains drawn upon unfriendly night,
+That we descant and yet again descant
+Upon the supreme theme of Art and Song:
+Bodily decrepitude is wisdom; young
+We loved each other and were ignorant.
+
+@A W. B. Yeats
+#
+@T Clouds
+
+Down the blue night the unending columns press
+In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,
+Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow
+Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.
+Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless,
+And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,
+As who would pray good for the world, but know
+Their benediction empty as they bless.
+
+They say that the Dead die not, but remain
+Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.
+I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these,
+In wise majestic melancholy train,
+And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas,
+And men coming and going on the earth.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T If I should ever by Chance
+
+If I should ever by chance grow rich
+I'll buy Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
+Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater,
+And let them all to my elder daughter.
+The rent I shall ask of her will be only
+Each year's violets, white and lonely,
+The first primroses and orchises -
+She must find them before I do, that is.
+But if she finds a blossom on furze
+Without rent they shall all for ever be hers,
+Codham, Cockridden, and Childerditch,
+Roses, Pyrgo, and Lapwater, -
+I shall give them all to my elder daughter.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Adlestrop
+
+Yes, I remember Adlestrop -
+The name, because one afternoon
+Of heat the express-train drew up there
+Unwontedly. It was late June.
+
+The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
+No one left and no one came
+On the bare platform. What I saw
+Was Adlestrop - only the name
+
+And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
+And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
+No whit less still and lonely fair
+Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
+
+And for that minute a blackbird sang
+Close by, and round him, mistier,
+Farther and farther, all the birds
+Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Tall Nettles
+
+Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
+These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
+Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
+Only the elm butt tops the nettles now.
+
+This corner of the farmyard I like most:
+As well as any bloom upon a flower
+I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
+Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Cherry Trees
+
+The cherry trees bend over and are shedding
+On the old road where all that passed are dead,
+Their petals, strewing the grass as for a wedding
+This early May morn when there is none to wed.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T What will they do?
+
+What will they do when I am gone? It is plain
+That they will do without me as the rain
+Can do without the flowers and the grass
+That profit by it and must perish without.
+I have but seen them in the loud street pass;
+And I was naught to them. I turned about
+To see them disappearing carelessly.
+But what if I in them as they in me
+Nourished what has great value and no price?
+Almost I thought that rain thirsts for a draught
+Which only in the blossom's chalice lies,
+Until that one turned back and lightly laughed.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Lane
+
+Some day, I think, there will be people enough
+In Froxfield to pick all the blackberries
+Out of the hedges of Green Lane, the straight
+Broad lane where now September hides herself
+In bracken and blackberry, harebell and dwarf gorse.
+Today, where yesterday a hundred sheep
+Were nibbling, halcyon bells shake to the sway
+Of waters that no vessel ever sailed...
+It is a kind of spring: the chaffinch tries
+His song. For heat it is like summer too.
+This might be winter's quiet. While the glint
+Of hollies dark in the swollen hedges lasts -
+One mile - and those bells ring, little I know
+Or heed if time be still the same, until
+The lane ends and once more all is the same.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T In Memoriam (Easter, 1915)
+
+The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
+This Eastertide call into mind the men,
+Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
+Have gathered them and will do never again.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Failure
+
+Because God put His adamantine fate
+Between my sullen heart and its desire,
+I swore that I would burst the Iron Gate,
+Rise up, and curse Him on His throne of fire.
+Earth shuddered at my crown of blasphemy,
+But Love was as a flame about my feet;
+Proud up the Golden Stair I strode; and beat
+Thrice on the Gate, and entered with a cry -
+
+All the great courts were quiet in the sun,
+And full of vacant echoes: moss had grown
+Over the glassy pavement, and begun
+To creep within the dusty council-halls.
+An idle wind blew round an empty throne
+And stirred the heavy curtains on the walls.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Sonnet
+
+I said I splendidly loved you; it's not true.
+Such long swift tides stir not a land-locked sea.
+On gods or fools the high risk falls - on you -
+The clean clear bitter-sweet that's not for me.
+Love soars from earth to ecstasies unwist.
+Love is flung Lucifer-like from Heaven to Hell.
+But - there are wanderers in the middle mist,
+Who cry for shadows, clutch, and cannot tell
+Whether they love at all, or, loving, whom:
+An old song's lady, a fool in fancy dress,
+Or phantoms, or their own face on the gloom;
+For love of Love, or from heart's loneliness.
+Pleasure's not theirs, nor pain. They doubt, and sigh,
+And do not love at all. Of these am I.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T The Hill
+
+Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
+Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
+You said, `Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
+Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
+When we are old, are old...' `And when we die
+All's over that is ours; and life burns on
+Through other lovers, other lips,' said I,
+`Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!'
+
+`We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
+Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!' we said;
+`We shall go down with unreluctant tread
+Rose-crowned into the darkness!' ...Proud we were,
+And laughed, that had such brave true things to say,
+- And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Song
+
+All suddenly the wind comes soft,
+And Spring is here again;
+And the hawthorn quickens with buds of green,
+And my heart with buds of pain.
+
+My heart all Winter lay so numb,
+The earth so dead and frore,
+That I never thought the Spring would come,
+Or my heart wake any more.
+
+But Winter's broken and earth has woken.
+And the small birds cry again;
+And the hawthorn hedge puts forth its buds,
+And my heart puts forth its pain.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T The Way that Lovers Use
+
+The way that lovers use is this:
+They bow, catch hands, with never a word,
+And their lips meet, and they do kiss,
+- So I have heard.
+
+They queerly find some healing so,
+And strange attainment in the touch;
+There is a secret lovers know,
+- I have read as much.
+
+And theirs is no longer joy nor smart,
+Changing or ending, night or day;
+But mouth to mouth, and heart on heart,
+- So lovers say.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Song
+
+The way of love was thus.
+He was born one winter's morn
+With hands delicious,
+And it was well with us.
+
+Love came our quiet way,
+Lit pride in us, and died in us,
+All in a winter's day.
+There is no more to say.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Sonnet Reversed
+
+Hand trembling towards hand; the amazing lights
+Of heart and eye. They stood on supreme heights.
+
+Ah, the delirious weeks of honeymoon!
+Soon they returned, and after strange adventures,
+Settled at Balham by the end of June.
+Their money was in Can. Pasc. B. Debentures,
+And in Antofagastas. Still he went
+Cityward daily; still she did abide
+At home. And both were really quite content
+With work and social pleasures. Then they died.
+They left three children (besides George, who drank):
+The eldest Jane, who married Mr Bell,
+William, the head-clerk in the County Bank,
+And Henry, a stock-broker, doing well.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T A White Rose
+
+The red rose whispers of passion,
+And the white rose breathes of love;
+O, the red rose is a falcon,
+And the white rose is a dove.
+
+But I send you a cream-white rosebud
+With a flush on its petal tips;
+For the love that is purest and sweetest
+Has a kiss of desire on the lips.
+
+@A John Boyle O'Reilly
+#
+@T Urceus Exit
+
+I intended an Ode,
+And it turn'd to a Sonnet.
+It began 'a la mode',
+I intended an Ode;
+But Rose cross'd the road
+In her latest new bonnet;
+I intended an Ode;
+And it turn'd to a Sonnet.
+
+@A Austin Dobson
+#
+@T Pippa's Song
+
+The year's at the spring,
+And day's at the morn;
+Morning's at seven;
+The hill-side's dew-pearl'd;
+The lark's on the wing;
+The snail's on the thorn;
+God's in His heaven -
+All's right with the world!
+
+@A Robert Browning
+#
+@T Song
+
+She is not fair to outward view
+As many maidens be,
+Her loveliness I never knew
+Until she smiled on me;
+O, then I saw her eye was bright,
+A well of love, a spring of light!
+
+But now her looks are coy and cold,
+To mine they ne'er reply,
+And yet I cease not to behold
+The love-light in her eye:
+Her very frowns are fairer far
+Than smiles of other maidens are.
+
+@A Hartley Coleridge
+#
+@T Rondeau
+
+Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
+Jumping from the chair she sat in;
+Time, you thief, who love to get
+Sweets into your list, put that in!
+Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
+Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
+Say I'm growing old, but add,
+Jenny kiss'd me.
+
+@A J. H. Leigh Hunt
+#
+@T A Drinking Song
+
+Bacchus must now his power resign -
+I am the only God of Wine!
+It is not fit the wretch should be
+In competition set with me,
+Who can drink ten times more than he.
+
+Make a new world, ye powers divine!
+Stock'd with nothing else but Wine:
+Let Wine its only product be,
+Let Wine be earth, and air, and sea -
+And let that Wine be all for me!
+
+@A Henry Carey
+#
+I never had a piece of toast
+Particularly long and wide,
+But fell upon the sanded floor
+And always on the buttered side.
+
+@A James Payn
+#
+@T Summer Evening
+
+The frog, half fearful, jumps across the path,
+And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
+Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
+My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
+Till past - and then the cricket sings more strong,
+And grasshoppers in merry mood still wear
+The short night weary with their fretting song.
+Up from behind the mole-hill jumps the hare,
+Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
+The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
+From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
+And drops again when no more noise it hears.
+Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,
+Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.
+
+@A John Clare
+#
+@T Diamond Cut Diamond
+
+Two cats
+One up a tree
+One under the tree
+The cat up a tree is he
+The cat under the tree is she
+The tree is witch elm, just incidentally.
+He takes no notice of she, she takes no notice of he.
+He stares at the woolly clouds passing, she stares at the tree.
+There's been a lot written about cats, by Old Possum, Yeats and
+Company
+But not Alfred de Musset or Lord Tennyson or Poe or anybody
+Wrote about one cat under, and one cat up, a tree.
+God knows why this should be left for me
+Except I like cats as cats be
+Especially one cat up
+And one cat under
+A witch elm
+Tree.
+
+@A Ewart Milne
+#
+@T Time and Love
+
+When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
+The rich proud cost of out-worn buried age;
+When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
+And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
+
+When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
+Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
+And the firm soil win of the watery main,
+Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
+
+When I have seen such interchange of state,
+Or state itself confounded to decay,
+Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate -
+That Time will come and take my Love away:
+
+- This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
+But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+Under the greenwood tree
+Who loves to lie with me,
+And turn his merry note
+Unto the sweet bird's throat -
+Come hither, come hither, come hither !
+Here shall he see
+No enemy
+But winter and rough weather.
+
+Who doth ambition shun
+And loves to live i' the sun,
+Seeking the food he eats
+And pleased with what he gets -
+Come hither, come hither, come hither!
+Here shall he see
+No enemy
+But winter and rough weather.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+@T Absence
+
+Being your slave, what should I do but tend
+Upon the hours and times of your desire?
+I have no precious time at all to spend
+Nor services to do, till you require:
+
+Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
+Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
+Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
+When you have bid your servant once adieu:
+
+Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
+Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
+But like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
+Save, where you are, how happy you make those;-
+
+So true a fool is love, that in your will,
+Though you do anything, he thinks no ill.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
+For as you were when first your eye I eyed
+Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
+Have from the forests shook three summers' pride;
+Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
+In process of the seasons have I seen,
+Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
+Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
+
+Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
+Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
+So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
+Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
+
+For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,-
+Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+@T To His Love
+
+Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
+Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
+Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
+And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
+
+Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
+And often is his gold complexion dimm'd:
+And every fair from fair sometime declines,
+By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd.
+
+But thy eternal summer shall not fade
+Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
+Nor shall death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
+When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
+
+So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
+So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+@T Carpe Diem
+
+O Mistress, where are you roaming?
+O stay and hear! your true-love's coming
+That can sing both high and low;
+Trip no further, pretty sweeting,
+Journey's end in lovers' meeting -
+Every wise man's son doth know.
+
+What is love? 'tis not hereafter;
+Present mirth hath present laughter;
+What's to come is still unsure;
+In delay there lies no plenty,-
+Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,
+Youth's a stuff will not endure.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+@T A Sea Dirge
+
+Full fathom five thy father lies:
+Of his bones are coral made;
+Those are peals that were his eyes;
+Nothing of him that doth fade
+But doth suffer a sea-change
+Into something rich and strange.
+Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell;
+Hark! now I hear them,-
+Ding, dong, bell.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+@T On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey
+
+Mortality, behold and fear,
+What a change of flesh is here!
+Think how many royal bones
+Sleep within these heaps of stones;
+Here they lie, had realms and lands,
+Who now want strength to stir their hands,
+Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust
+They preach, `In greatness is no trust.'
+Here's an acre sown indeed
+With the richest royallest seed
+That the earth did e'er suck in
+Since the first man died for sin:
+Here the bones of birth have cried
+`Though gods they were, as men they died!'
+Here are sands, ignoble things,
+Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings:
+Here's a world of pomp and state
+Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
+
+@A F. Beaumont
+#
+@T The Terror of Death
+
+When I have fears that I may cease to be
+Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
+Before high-piled books, in charact'ry
+Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;
+
+When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
+Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
+And think that I may never live to trace
+Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
+
+And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
+That I shall never look upon thee more,
+Never have relish in the fairy power
+Of unreflecting love - then on the shore
+
+Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
+Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
+
+@A J. Keats
+#
+@T Young and Old
+
+When all the world is young, lad,
+And all the trees are green;
+And every goose a swan, lad,
+And every lass a queen;
+Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
+And round the world away;
+Young blood must have its course, lad,
+And every dog his day.
+
+When all the world is old, lad,
+And all the trees are brown;
+And all the sport is stale, lad,
+And all the wheels run down;
+Creep home, and take your place there,
+The spent and maimed among:
+God grant you find one face there,
+You loved when all was young.
+
+@A C. Kingsley
+#
+@T Pied Beauty
+
+Glory be to God for dappled things-
+For skies of couple-colour as a brindled cow;
+For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
+Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
+Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
+And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
+
+All things counter, original, spare, strange;
+Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
+With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
+He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
+Praise Him.
+
+@A Gerard Manley-Hopkins
+#
+@T The Lake Isle of Innisfree
+
+I will arise, and go to Innisfree,
+And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
+Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the hiney bee,
+And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
+
+And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
+Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
+There midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
+And evening full of the linnet's wings.
+
+I will arise and go now, for always night and day
+I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shores;
+While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
+I hear it in the deep heart's core.
+
+@A W.B. Yeats
+#
+@T The Soldier
+
+If I should die, think only this of me:
+That there's some corner of a foreign field
+That is for ever England. There shall be
+In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
+A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
+Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
+Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
+
+And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
+A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
+Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
+Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
+And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
+In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Towers
+
+Protected from the gales, we,
+By the line of trees along the bank
+From storms that batter Fife
+And life here through the changing seasons -
+Unchanging, a lonely beauty,
+No reason to look to the rush
+Beyond the rustle of the bushes.
+But through the curtain of our trees,
+The distant towers like castle turrets
+Gleam by day and shine by night,
+Holding, choking
+Invisible souls within the shearing concrete height.
+
+@A Julian Smart
+#
+@T Break of Day
+
+Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
+O wilt thou therefore rise from me?
+Why should we rise, because 'tis light?
+Did we lie down, because 'twas night?
+Love which in spite of darkness brought us hither,
+Should in despite of light keep us together.
+
+Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
+If it could speak as well as spy,
+This were the worst, that it could say,
+That being well, I fain would stay,
+And that I loved my heart and honour so,
+That I would not from him, that had them, go.
+
+Must business thee from hence remove?
+Oh, that's the worst disease of love,
+The poor, the foul, the false, love can
+Admit. but not the busied man.
+He which hath business, and makes love, doth do
+Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.
+
+@A John Donne
+#
+@T The Computation
+
+For the first twenty years, since yesterday,
+I scarce believed, thou could'st be gone away,
+For forty more, I fed on favours past,
+And forty on hopes, that thou would'st, they might last.
+Tears drowned one hundred, and sighs blew out two,
+A thousand, I did neither think, nor do,
+Or not divide, all being one thought of you;
+Or in a thousand more, forget that too.
+Yet call not this long life; but think that I
+Am, by being dead, immortal; can ghosts die?
+
+@A John Dunne
+#
+@T A Red, Red Rose
+
+O, my love's like a red, red rose,
+That's newly sprung in June.
+O, my love's like the melodie,
+That's sweetly play'd in tune.
+
+As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
+So deep in love am I,
+And I will love thee still, my Dear,
+Till a' the seas gang dry.
+
+Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
+And the rocks melt wi' the sun!
+O, I will love thee still, my Dear,
+While the sands o' life shall run.
+
+And fare thee weel, my only Love,
+And fare thee weel a while!
+And I will come again, my Love,
+Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
+
+@A Robert Burns
+#
+@T On Charles II
+
+Here lies our sovereign Lord the King,
+Whose word no man relies on,
+Who never said a foolish thing
+Nor ever did a wise one.
+
+@A Earl of Rochester
+#
+@T The Four Georges
+
+George the First was always reckoned
+Vile - but viler George the Second;
+And what mortal ever heard
+Any good of George the Third?
+When from earth the Fourth descended,
+God be praised, the Georges ended!
+
+@A W.S. Landor
+#
+@T Frederick, Prince of Wales
+
+Here lies Fred,
+Who was alive, and is dead,
+Had it been his father,
+I had much rather.
+Had it been his brother,
+Still better than another.
+Had it been his sister,
+No one would have missed her.
+Had it been the whole generation,
+Still better for the nation.
+But since 'tis only Fred,
+Who was alive, and is dead,
+There's no more to be said.
+
+@A W.M. Thackeray
+#
+@T On an Old Woman
+
+Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said,
+But 'tis a foul aspersion;
+She buys them black, they therefore need
+No subsequent immersion.
+
+@A W. Cowper
+#
+@T An Epitaph on Sir John Vanbrugh (Architect)
+
+Under this stone, reader, survey
+Dead Sir John Vanbrugh's house of clay.
+Lie heavy on him, earth! for he
+Laid many heavy loads on thee.
+
+@A A. Evans
+#
+@T True Joy in Possession
+
+To have a thing is little,
+If you're not allowed to show it,
+And to know a thing is nothing
+Unless others know you know it.
+
+@A Lord Neaves
+#
+@T To His Mistress Going To Bed
+
+Come, Madam, come, all rest my powers defy,
+Until I labour, I in labour lie.
+The foe oft-times having the foe in sight,
+Is tired with standing though he never fight.
+Off with that girdle, like heaven's zone glistering,
+But a far fairer world encompassing.
+Unpin that spangled breastplate which you wear,
+That th'eyes of busy fools may be stopt there.
+Unlace yourself, for that harmonious chime
+Tells me from you, that now it is bed time.
+Off with that happy busk, which I envy,
+That still can be, and still can stand so nigh.
+Your gown going off, such beauteous state reveals,
+As when from flowry meads the hill's shadow steals.
+@P
+Off with that wiry coronet and show
+The hairy diadem which on you doth grow:
+Now off with those shoes, and then safely tread
+In this love's hallowed temple, this soft bed.
+In such white robes, heaven's angels used to be
+Received by men; thou angel bring'st with thee
+A heaven like Mahomet's Paradise; and though
+Ill spirits walk in white, we easily know,
+By this these angels from an evil sprite,
+Those set our hairs, but these our flesh upright.
+
+Licence my roving hands, and let them go,
+Before, behind, between, above, below.
+O my America! my new-found-land,
+My kingdom, safeliest when with one man manned,
+My mine of precious stones, My empery,
+How blest am I in this discovering thee!
+To enter in these bonds, is to be free;
+Then where my hand is set, my seal shall be.
+@P
+Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
+As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be,
+To taste whole joys. Gems which you women use
+Are like Atlanta's balls, cast in men's views,
+That when a fool's eye lighteth on a gem,
+His earthly soul may covet theirs, not them.
+Like pictures, or like books' gay coverings made
+For lay-men, are all women this arrayed;
+Themselves are mystic books, which only we
+(Whom their imputed grace will dignify)
+Must see revealed. Then since that I may know,
+As liberally, as to a midwife, show
+Thyself: cast all, yea, this white linen hence,
+There is no penance due to innocence.
+
+To teach thee, I am naked first; why then
+What needst thou have more covering than a man.
+
+@A John Donne
+#
+@T Cheltenham Waters
+
+Here lie I and my four daughters,
+Killed by drinking Cheltenham waters.
+Had we but stuck to Epsom salts,
+We wouldn't have been in these here vaults.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Hypocrisy
+
+Hypocrisy will serve as well
+To propagate a church as zeal;
+As persecution and promotion
+Do equally advance devotion:
+So round white stones will serve, they say,
+As well as eggs to make hens lay.
+
+@A Samuel Butler
+#
+@T The Microbe
+
+The Microbe is so very small
+You cannot make him out at all,
+But many sanguine people hope
+To see him through a microscope.
+His jointed tongue that lies beneath
+A hundred curious rows of teeth;
+His seven tufted tails with lots
+Of lovely pink and purple spots,
+On each of which a pattern stands,
+Composed of forty separate bands;
+His eyebrows of a tender green;
+All of these have never yet been seen -
+But Scientists, who ought to know,
+Assures us that they must be so...
+Oh! let us never, never doubt
+What nobody is sure about!
+
+@A Hilaire Belloc
+#
+@T Slug
+
+Slugs, soft upon damp carpets of rich food,
+Make sullen love with bubbles and with sighs,
+Silvery flaccid. They consider lewd
+The use of eyes.
+
+@A John Pudney
+#
+@T The Doctor Prescribes
+
+A lady lately, that was fully sped
+Of all the pleasures of the marriage-bed
+Ask'd a physician, whether were more fit
+For Venus' sports, the morning or the night?
+The good old man made answer, as 'twas meet,
+The morn more wholesome, but the night more sweet.
+Nay then, i'faith, quoth she, since we have leisure,
+We'll to't each morn for health, each night for pleasure.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T On Mary Ann
+
+Mary Ann has gone to rest,
+Safe at last on Abraham's breast,
+Which may be nuts for Mary Ann,
+But is certainly rough on Abraham.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Misfortunes never come Singly
+
+Making toast at the fireside,
+Nurse fell in the grate and died;
+And what makes it ten times worse,
+All the toast was burnt with nurse.
+
+@A Harry Graham
+#
+@T Tender Heartedness
+
+Billy, in one of his nice new sashes,
+Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes;
+Now, although the room grows chilly,
+I haven't the heart to poke poor Billy.
+
+@A Harry Graham
+#
+@T Miss Twye
+
+Miss Twye was soaping her breasts in her bath
+When she heard behind her a meaning laugh
+And to her amazement she discovered
+A wicked man in the bathroom cupboard.
+
+@A Gavin Ewart
+#
+@T The Old Loony of Lyme
+
+There was an old loony of Lyme,
+Whose candour was simply sublime;
+When they asked, 'Are you there?'
+'Yes,' he said, 'but take care,
+For I'm never "all there" at a time.'
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T The Young Lady from Wantage
+
+There was a young lady from Wantage
+Of whom the town clerk took advantage.
+Said the borough surveyor:
+'Indeed you must pay `er.
+You've totally altered her frontage.'
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T The Modern Hiawatha
+
+When he killed the Mudjokivis
+Of the skin he made him mittens,
+Made them with the fur side inside,
+Made them with the skin side outside,
+He, to get the warm side inside,
+Put the inside skin side outside;
+He, to get the cold side outside,
+Put the warm side fur side inside.
+That's why he put fur side inside,
+Why he put the skin side outside,
+Why he turned them inside outside.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Is it a Month
+
+Is it a month since I and you
+In the starlight of Glen Dubh
+Stretched beneath a hazel bough
+Kissed from ear and throat to brow,
+Since your fingers, neck, and chin
+Made the bars that fence me in,
+Till Paradise seemed but a wreck
+Near your bosom, brow and neck
+And stars grew wilder, growing wise,
+In the splendour of your eyes!
+Since the weasel wandered near
+Whilst we kissed from ear to ear
+And the wet and withered leaves
+Blew about your cap and sleeves,
+Till the moon sank tired through the ledge
+Of the wet and windy hedge?
+And we took the starry lane
+Back to Dublin town again.
+
+@A J. M. Synge
+@A (1871-1909)
+#
+@T The Lark in the Clear Air
+
+Dear thoughts are in my mind,
+And my soul soars enchanted,
+As I hear the sweet lark sing
+In the clear air of the day.
+For a tender beaming smile
+To my hope has been granted,
+And tomorrow she shall hear
+All my fond heart would say.
+
+I shall tell her all my love,
+All my soul's adoration;
+And I think she will hear me
+And will not say me nay.
+It is this that fills my soul
+With its joyous elation,
+As I hear the sweet lark sing
+In the clear air of the day.
+
+@A Samuel Ferguson
+@A (1810-1886)
+#
+@T The Self-Unseeing
+
+Here is the ancient floor,
+Footworn and hollowed and thin,
+Here was the former door
+Where the dead feet walked in.
+
+She sat here in her chair,
+Smiling into the fire;
+He who played stood there,
+Bowing it higher and higher.
+
+Childlike, I danced in a dream;
+Blessings emblazoned that day;
+Everything glowed with a gleam;
+Yet we were looking away!
+
+@A Thomas Hardy
+#
+@T Cean Dubh Deelish (Darling Black Head)
+
+Put your head, darling, darling, darling,
+Your darling black head my heart above;
+O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,
+Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
+
+O many and many a young girl for me is pining,
+Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,
+For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;
+But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!
+
+Put your head, darling, darling, darling,
+Your darling black head my heart above;
+O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance,
+Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?
+
+@A Samuel Ferguson
+@A (1810-1886)
+#
+@T From 'The Amores'
+
+Ring of mine, made to encircle my pretty mistress's finger,
+Valuable only in terms of the giver's love,
+Go, and good welcome! May she receive you with pleasure,
+Slip you over her knuckle there and then.
+May you fit her as well as she fits me, rub snugly
+Around her finger, precisely the right size!
+Lucky ring to be handled by my mistress! I'm developing
+A miserable jealousy of my own gift.
+But suppose I could be the ring, transformed in an instant
+By some famous magician's art -
+Then, when I felt like running my hand down Corinna's
+Dress, and exploring her breasts, I'd work
+Myself off her finger (tight squeeze or not) and by crafty
+Cunning drop into her cleavage. Let's say
+She was writing a private letter - I'd have to seal it,
+@P
+And a dry stone sticks on wax:
+She's moisten me with her tongue. Pure bliss - provided
+I didn't have to endorse any hostile remarks
+Against myself. If she wanted to put me away in her
+Jewel-box, I'd cling tighter, refuse to budge.
+(Don't worry, my sweet, I'd never cause you discomfort,
+or burden
+Your slender finger with an unwelcome weight.)
+Wear me whenever you take a hot shower, don't worry
+If water runs under your gem -
+Though I fancy the sight of you naked would arise my
+passions, leave me
+A ring of visibly virile parts...
+Pure wishful thinking! On your way, then, little present,
+And show her you come with all my love.
+
+@A Ovid
+@A (BC 43-AD 17)
+#
+@T After an Interval
+
+After an interval, reading, here in the midnight,
+With the great stars looking on -- all the starts of Orion looking,
+And the silent Pleiades -- and the duo looking of Saturn and ruddy Mars;
+Pondering, reading my own songs, after a long interval,
+(sorrow and death familiar now)
+Ere Closing the book, what pride! what joy! to find them
+Standing so well the test of death and night,
+And the duo of Saturn and Mars!
+
+@A Walt Whitman
+#
+@T A Last Poem
+
+A last poem, and a last, and yet another --
+O, when can I give over?
+Must I drive the pen until the blood bursts from my nails
+And my breath fails and I shake with fever?
+Shall I never hear her whisper softly,
+"But this is one written by you only,
+And for me only; therefore, love, have done"?
+
+@A Robert Graves
+#
+I have no pain, dear Mother, now,
+But, oh, I am so dry;
+So connect me to a brewery,
+And leave me there to die.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Found Poem (from the Hound of the Baskervilles)
+
+I stooped, panting, and pressed my pistol
+To the dreaful, shimmering head,
+But it was useless to press the trigger,
+The giant hound was dead.
+
+@A A. Conan Doyle
+#
+@T Passing through the Carron Iron Works
+
+We cam na here to view your warks,
+In hopes to be mair wise,
+But only, lest we gang to Hell,
+It may be nae surprise.
+
+@A Robert Burns
+#
+@T Imitation of Pope: A Compliment to the Ladies
+
+Wondrous the Gods, more wondrous are the Men,
+More Wondrous Wondrous still the Cock & Hen,
+More Wondrous still the Table, Stool & Chair;
+But Ah! More wondrous still the Charming Fair.
+
+@A William Blake
+#
+@T Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast
+
+Have ye beheld (with much delight)
+A red rose peeping through a white?
+Or else a cherry (double grac'd)
+Within a lily? Centre plac'd?
+Or ever mark'd the pretty beam,
+A strawberry shows half drown'd in cream?
+Or seen rich rubies blushing through
+A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
+So like to this, nay all the rest,
+Is each neat niplet of her breast.
+
+@A Robert Herrick
+#
+@T Life
+
+When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;
+Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;
+Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay:
+Tomorrow's falser than the former day;
+Lies worse; and while it says, we shall be blessed
+With some new joys, cut off what we possessed.
+Strange cozenage! None would live past years again,
+Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;
+And from the dregs of life think to receive
+What the first sprightly running could not give.
+
+@A John Dryden
+#
+@T To a Yellow Hammer
+
+Poor yellow-breasted little thing,
+I would thou had'st been on the wing,
+'Ere 'twas my fate on thee to bring
+Thy death so soon;
+Thou'lt never more be heard to sing
+In joyful tune.
+
+Too late I saw thee 'mongst the dust,
+Gambling so gay in simple trust,
+I knew that with my wheel I must
+Thy life destroy;
+How cruel quick my rubber crushed
+Thee in thy joy.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Wrecked
+
+A girl, a wheel,
+A shock, a squeal,
+A header, a thump,
+A girl in a lump,
+A bloomer all torn,
+A maiden forlorn.
+
+@A Annymous
+#
+@T Gather ye Rosebuds
+
+Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
+Old Time is still a-flying;
+And this same flower that smiles today
+Tomorrow will be dying.
+
+The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
+The higher he's a-getting,
+The sooner will his race be run,
+And nearer he's to setting.
+
+That age is best, which is the first,
+When youth and blood are warmer
+But being spent, the worse, and worst
+Times still succeed the former.
+
+Then be not coy, but use your time,
+And while you may, go marry;
+For having lost but once your prime,
+You may for ever tarry.
+
+@A Robert Herrick
+#
+@T My Love's a Match
+
+My love's a match in beauty
+For every flower that blows,
+Her little ear's a lily,
+Her velvet cheek a rose;
+Her locks like gilly gowans
+Hang golden to her knww.
+If I were King of Ireland,
+My Queen she'd surely be.
+
+Her eyes are fond forget-me-nots,
+And no such snow is seen
+Upon the heaving hawthorn bush
+As crests her bodice green.
+The thrushes when she's talking
+Sit listening on the tree.
+If I were King of Ireland,
+My Queen she'd surely be.
+
+@A Alfred P. Graves
+#
+@T In a Gondola
+
+The moth's kiss, first!
+Kiss me as if you made believe
+You were not sure, this eve,
+How my face, your flower, had pursed
+Its petals up; so, here and there
+You brush it, till I grow aware
+Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.
+
+The bee's kiss, now!
+Kiss me as if you enter'd gay
+My heart at some noonday,
+A bud that dares not disallow
+The claim, so all is render'd up,
+And passively its shatter'd cup
+Over your head to sleep I bow.
+
+@A Robert Browning
+#
+@T To his Coy Mistress
+
+Had we but worlds enough, and time,
+This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
+We would sit down and think which way
+To walk and pass our long love's day.
+Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
+Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
+Of Humber would complain. I would
+Love you ten years before the Flood,
+And you should, if you please, refuse
+Till the conversion of the Jews.
+My vegetable love should grow
+Vaster than empires, and more slow;
+An hundred years should go to praise
+Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
+Two hundred to adore each breast,
+But thirty thousand to the rest;
+An age at least to every part,
+And the last age should show your heart.
+For, Lady, you deserve this state,
+Nor would I love at a lower rate.
+@P
+But at my back I always hear
+Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
+And yonder all before us lie
+Deserts of vast eternity.
+Thy beauty shall no more be found,
+Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
+My echoing song: then worms shall try
+That long preserved virginity,
+And your quaint honour turn to dust,
+And into ashes all my lust:
+The grave's a fine and private place,
+But none, I think, do there embrace.
+@P
+Now therefore, while the youthful hue
+Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
+And while thy willing soul transpires
+At every port with instant fires,
+Now let us sport us while we may,
+And now, like amorous birds of prey,
+Rather at once our time devour
+Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
+Let us roll all our strength and all
+Our sweetness up into one ball,
+And tear our pleasures with rough strife
+Through the iron gates of life:
+Thus, though we cannot make our sun
+Stand still, yet we will make him run.
+
+@A Andrew Marvell
+#
+@T Destiny
+
+Somewhere there waiteth in this world of ours
+For one lone soul another lonely soul,
+Each choosing each through all the weary hours
+And meeting strangely at one sudden goal.
+Then blend they, like green leaves with golden flowers,
+Into one beautiful and perfect whole;
+And life's long night is ended, and the way
+Lies open onward to eternal day.
+
+@A Edwin Arnold
+#
+@T A Stolen Kiss
+
+Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes
+Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
+And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
+From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.
+
+Methinks no wrong it were, if I should steal
+From those two melting rubies one poor kiss;
+None sees the theft that would the theft reveal,
+Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss;
+
+Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
+There would be little sign I would do so;
+Why then should I this robbery delay?
+O, she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
+
+Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
+And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.
+
+@A George Wither
+#
+@T How do I love thee?
+
+How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
+I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
+My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
+For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
+I love thee to the level of every day's
+Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
+I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
+I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
+I love thee with the passion put to use
+In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
+I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
+With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,
+Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,
+I shall but love thee better after death.
+
+@A Elizabeth Barrett Browning
+#
+@T Old Man
+
+Old Man, or Lad's-love, -- in the name there's nothing
+To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man,
+The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree,
+Growing with rosemary and lavendar.
+Even to one that knows it well, the names
+Hald decorate, half perplex, the thing it is:
+At least, what that is clings not to the names
+In spite of time. And yet I like the names.
+
+The herb itself I like not, but for certain
+I love it, as some day the child will love it
+Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush
+Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
+Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling
+The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps
+@P
+Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs
+Her finger and runs off. The bush is still
+But half as tall as she, though it is as old;
+So well she clips it. Not a word she says;
+And I can only wonder hwo much hereafter
+She will remember, with that bitter scent,
+Of garden rows, and ancient damson-trees
+Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,
+A low thick bush beside the door, and me
+Forbidding her to pick.
+
+As for myself,
+Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.
+I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
+Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
+Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
+Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
+Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
+With no meaning, that this bitter one.
+@P
+I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray
+And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;
+Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait
+For what I should, yet never can, remember:
+No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush
+Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside,
+Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;
+Only an avenue, dark and nameless, without end.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Manor Farm
+
+The rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills
+Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
+Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
+But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
+Nor did I value that thin gilding beam
+More than a pretty February thing
+Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,
+And church and yet-tree opposite, in age
+Its equal and in size. Small church, great yew,
+And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness.
+The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
+With tiles duskily glowing, entertained
+The midday sun; and up and down the roof
+White pigeons nestled. There was no sound but one.
+Three cart-horses were looking over a gate
+Drowsily through their forelocks, swiching their tails
+Against a fly, a solitary fly.
+@P
+The Winter's cheek flushed as if he had drained
+Spring, Summer, and Autumn at a draught
+And smiled quietly. But 'twas not Winter --
+Rather a season of bliss unchangeable
+Awakened from farm and church where it had lain
+Safe under tile and thatch for ages since
+This England, Old already, was called Merry.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Unknown Bird
+
+Three lovely notes he whistled, too soft to be heard
+If others sang; but others never sang
+In the great beech-wood all that May and June.
+No one saw him: I alone could hear him
+Though many listened. Was it but four years
+Ago? or five? He never came again.
+Oftenest when I heard him I was alone,
+Nor could I ever make another hear.
+La-la-la! he called, seeming far-off --
+As if a cock crowed past the edge of the world,
+As if the bird or I were in a dream.
+Yet that he travelled through the trees and soometimes
+Neared me, was plain, though somehow distant still
+He sounded. All the proof is -- I told men
+What I had heard.
+@P
+I never knew a voice,
+Man, beast, or bird, better than this. I told
+The naturalists; but neither had they heard
+Anything like the notes that did so haunt me
+I had them clear by heart and have them still.
+Four years, or five, have made no difference. Then
+As now that La-la-la! was bodiless sweet:
+Sad more than joyful it was, if I must say
+'Twas sad only with joy too, too far off
+For me to taste it. But I cannot tell
+If truly never anything but fair
+The days were when he sang, as now they seem.
+This surely I know, that I who listened then,
+Happy sometimes, sometimes suffering
+A heavy body and a heavy heart,
+Now straightaway, if I think of it, become
+Light as that bird wandering beyond my shore.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T First known when lost
+
+I never had noticed it until
+'Twas gone, -- the narrow copse
+Where now the woodman lops
+The last of the willows with his bill.
+
+It was not more than a hedge o'ergrown.
+One meadow's breadth away
+I passed it day by day.
+Now the soil is bare as a bone,
+
+And black betwixt two meadows green,
+Though fresh-cut faggot ends
+Of hazel make some amends
+With a gleam as if flowers they had been.
+
+Strange it could have hidden so near!
+And now I see as I look
+That the small winding brook,
+A tributary's tributary rises there.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Owl
+
+Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved;
+Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
+Against the North wind: tired, yet so that rest
+Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
+
+Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
+Knowing how hungry, cold and tired was I.
+All of the night was quite barred out except
+An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry
+
+Shaken out long and clear upon the hill,
+No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
+But one telling me plain what I escaped
+And others could not, that night, as in I went.
+
+And salted was my food, and my repose,
+Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice
+Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
+Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T But these things also
+
+But these things also are Spring's --
+On banks by the roadside the grass
+Long-dead that is greyer now
+Than all the Winter it was;
+
+The shell of a little snail bleached
+In the grass; chip of flint, and mite
+Of chalk; and the small bird's dung
+In splashes of purest white:
+
+All the white things a man mistakes
+For earliest violets
+Who seeks through Winter's ruins
+Something to pay Winter's debts,
+
+While the North blows, and starling flocks
+By chattering on and on
+Keeep their spirits up in the mist,
+And Spring's here, Winter's not gone.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The New House
+
+Now first, as I shut the door,
+I was alone
+In the new house; and the wind
+Began to moan.
+
+Old at once was the house,
+And I was old;
+My ears were teased with the dread
+Of what was foretold,
+
+Nights of storm, days of mist, without end;
+Sad days when the sun
+Shone in vain: old griefs, and griefs
+Not yet begun.
+
+All was foretold me; naught
+Could I foresee;
+But I learnt how the wind would sound
+After these things should be.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Lovers
+
+The two men in the road were taken aback.
+The lovers came out shading their eyes from the sun,
+And never was white so white, or black so black,
+As her cheeks and hair. 'There are more things than one
+A man might turn into a wood for, Jack,'
+Said George; Jack whispered: 'He has not got a gun.
+It's a bit too much of a good thing, I say.
+They are going the other road, look. And see her run.' --
+She ran -- 'What a thing it is, this picking may.'
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Melancholy
+
+The rain and wind, the rain and wind, raved endlessly.
+On me the Summer storm, and fever, and melancholy
+Wrought magic, so that if I feared the solitude
+Far more I feared all company: too sharp, too rude,
+Had been the wisest or the dearest human voice.
+What I desired I knew not, but whate'er my choice
+Vain it must be, I knew. Yet naught did my despair
+But sweeten the strange sweetness, while through the wild air
+All day long I heard a distant cuckoo calling
+And, soft as dulcimers, sounds of near water falling,
+And, softer, and remote as if in history,
+Rumours of what had touched my friends, my foes, or me.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Glory
+
+The glory of the beauty of the morning, --
+The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;
+The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
+That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;
+White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;
+The heat, the stir, the sublime vancancy
+Of sky meadow and forest and my own heart: --
+The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning
+All I can ever do, all I can be,
+Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue,
+The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
+In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day
+@P
+Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell,
+Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start
+And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops,
+In hope to find whatever it is I seek,
+Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things
+That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?
+Or must I be content with discontent
+As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?
+And shall I ask at the day's end once more
+What beauty is, and what I can have meant
+By happiness? And shall I let all go,
+Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
+That I was happy oft and oft before,
+Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent,
+How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to,
+Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Brook
+
+Seated by a brook, watching a child
+Chiefly that paddled, I was this beguiled.
+Mellow the blackbird sang and sharp the thrush
+Not far off in the oak and hazel brush,
+Unseen. There was a scent like honeycomb
+From mugwort dull. And down upon the dome
+Of the stone the card-horse kicks against so oft
+A butterfly alighted. From aloft
+He took the heat of the sun, and from below,
+On the hot stone he perched contented so,
+As if never a cart would pass again
+That way; as if I were the last of men
+And he the first of insects to have earth
+And sun together and to know their worth.
+@P
+I was divided between him and the gleam,
+The motion, and the voices, of the stream,
+The waters running frizzled over gravel,
+Thaat never vanish and for ever travel.
+A grey flycatcher silent on a fence
+And I sat as if we had been there since
+The horseman and the horse lying beneath
+The fir-tree-covered barrow on the heath,
+The horseman and the horse with silver shoes,
+Galloped the downs last. All that I could lose
+I lost. And then the child's voice raised the dead.
+'No one's been here before' was what she said
+And what I felt, yet never should have found
+A word for, while I gathered sight and sound.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T This is no case of petty right or wrong
+
+This is no case of petty right or wrong
+That politicians or philosphers
+Can judge. I hate not Germans, nor grow hot
+With love of Englishmen, to please newspapers.
+Beside my hate for one fat patriot
+My hatred of the Kaiser is love true :--
+A kind of god he is, banging a gong.
+But I have not to choose between the two,
+Or between justice and injustice. Dinned
+With war and argument I read no more
+Than in the storm smoking along the wind
+Athwart the wood. Two witches' cauldrons roar.
+@P
+From one the weather shall rise clear and gay;
+Out of the other an England beautiful
+And like her mother that died yesterday.
+Little I know or care if, being dull,
+I shall miss something that historians
+Can rake out of the ashes when perchance
+The phoenix broods serene above their ken.
+But with the best and meanest Englishmen
+I am one in crying, God save England, lest
+We lose what never slaves and cattle blessed.
+The ages made here that made us from the dust:
+She is all we know and live by, and we trust
+She is good and must endure, loving her so:
+And as we love ourselves we hate her foe.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Helen
+
+And you, Helen, what should I give you?
+So many things I would give you
+Had I an infinite great store
+Offered me and I stood before
+To choose. I would give you youth,
+All kinds of lovelines and truth,
+A clear eye as good as mine,
+Lands, waters, flowers, wine,
+As many children as your heart
+Might wish for, a far better art
+Than mine can be, all you have lost
+Upon the travelling waters tossed,
+Or given to me. If I could choose
+Freely in that great treasure-house
+Anything from any shelf,
+I would give you back yourself,
+And power to discriminate
+What you want and want it not too late,
+Many fair days free from care
+And heart to enjoy both foul and fair,
+And myself, too, if I could find
+Where it lay hidden and it proved kind.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T Bob's Lane
+
+Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,
+Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but he
+Loved horses. He himself was like a cob,
+And leather-coloured. Also he loved a tree.
+
+For the life in them he loved most living things,
+But a tree chiefly. All along the lane
+He planted elms where now the stormcock sings
+That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.
+
+Till then the track had never had a name
+For all its thicket and the nightingales
+That should have earned it. No one was to blame.
+To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.
+
+Many years since, Bob Hayward died, and now
+None passes there because the mist and the rain
+Out of the elms have turned the lane to slough
+And gloom, the name alone survives, Bob's Lane.
+
+@A Edward Thomas
+#
+@T The Poetry of Dress
+
+A sweet disorder in the dress
+Kindles in clothes a wantonness :--
+A lawn about the shoulders thrown
+Into a fine distraction, --
+An erring lace, which here and there
+Enthrals the crimson stomacher --
+A cuff neglectful, and thereby
+Ribbands to flow confusedly, --
+A winning wave, deserving note,
+In the tempestuous petticoat, --
+A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
+I see a wild civility, --
+Do more bewitch me, than when art
+Is too precise in evry part.
+
+@A R. Herrick
+#
+@T The Poetry of Dress
+
+When as in silks my Julia goes
+Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
+That liquefaction of her clothes.
+
+Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
+That brave vibration each way free;
+O how that glittering taketh me!
+
+@A R. Herrick
+#
+My Love in her attire doth show her wit,
+It doth so well become her:
+For every season she hath dressings fit,
+For Winter, Spring and Summer.
+No beauty she doth miss
+When all her robes are on:
+But Beauty's self she is
+When all her robes are gone.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T On a Girdle
+
+That which her slender waist confined
+Shall now my joyful temples bind:
+No monarch but would give his crown
+His arms might do what this has done.
+
+It was my Heaven's extremest sphere,
+The pale which held that lovely deer:
+My joy, my grief, my hope, my love
+Did all within this circle move.
+
+A narrow compass! and yet there
+Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair:
+Give me but what this ribband bound,
+Take all the rest the Sun goes round.
+
+@A E. Waller
+#
+@T The Lost Love
+
+She dwelt among the untrodden ways
+Beside the springs of Dove;
+A maid whom there were none to praise,
+And very few to love:
+
+A violet by a mossy stone
+Half hidden from the eye!
+-- Fair as a star, when only one
+Is shining in the sky.
+
+She lived unknown, and few could know
+When Lucy ceased to be;
+But she is in her grave, and oh,
+The difference to me!
+
+@A W. Wordsworth
+#
+I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;
+Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
+I warmed both hands before the fire of life
+It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
+
+@A W. S. Landor
+#
+@T The Miller's Daughter
+
+It is the miller's daughter,
+And she is grown so dear, so dear,
+That I would be the jewel
+That trembles in her ear:
+For his in ringlets day and night,
+I'd touch her neck so warm and white.
+
+And I would be the girdle
+About her dainty waist,
+And her heart would beat against me
+In sorrow and in rest:
+And I should know if it beat right,
+I'd clasp it round so close and tight.
+
+And I would be the necklace,
+And all day long to fall and rise
+Upon her balmy bosom,
+With her laughter or her sighs,
+And I would lie so light, so light,
+I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.
+
+@A Lord Tennyson
+#
+@T Sea-fever
+
+I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
+And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
+And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
+And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
+
+I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
+Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
+And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
+And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
+
+I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
+To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
+And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
+And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.
+
+@A John Masefield
+#
+@T The Drum
+
+I hate that drum's discordant sound,
+Parading round, and round, and round:
+To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
+And lures from cities and from fields,
+To sell their liberty for charms
+Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
+And when Ambition's voice commands,
+To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.
+
+I hate that drum's discordant sound,
+Parading round, and round, and round:
+To me it talks of ravag'd plains,
+And burning towns, and ruin'd swains,
+And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
+And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
+And all that Misery's hand bestows,
+To fill the catalogue of human woes.
+
+@A John Scott
+@A (1730-83)
+#
+@T Everlasting Mercy
+
+Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester road
+Thy everlasting mercy showed
+The ploughman patient on the hill, forever there,
+Forever still
+Ploughing the hill with steady yoke,
+The pine trees lightning-struck and broke.
+
+I've marked the May Hill ploughman stay
+There on his hill day after day
+Driving his team against the sky
+While men and women live and die
+And now and then he seems to stoop
+To clear the coulter with the scoop
+Or touch an ox, to haw or gee,
+While Severn's stream goes out to sea.
+@P
+Near Bullen Bank, on Gloucester road
+Thy everlasting mercy showed
+The ploughman patient on the hill, forever there,
+Forever still
+The sea with all her ships and sails,
+And that great smokey port in Wales,
+And Gloucester tower bright in the sun,
+All know that patient wandering one.
+
+@A John Masefield
+
+Johnny Coppin's haunting arrangement of this available from
+Red Sky Records, 'English Morning' RSKC 107
+#
+@T Dawn
+(From the train between Bologna and Milan, Second Class)
+
+Opposite me two Germans snore and sweat.
+Through sullen swirling gloom we jolt and roar.
+We have been here for ever: even yet
+A dim watch tells two hours, two aeons, more.
+The windows are tight-shut and slimy-wet
+With a night's foetor. There are two hours more;
+Two hours to dawn and Milan; two hours yet.
+Opposite me two Germans sweat and snore...
+
+One of them wakes, and spits, and sleeps again.
+The darkness shivers. A wan light through the rain
+Strikes on our faces, drawn and white. Somewhere
+A new day sprawls; and, inside, the foul air
+Is chill, and damp, and fouler than before...
+Opposite me two Germans sweat and snore.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T The Voice
+
+Safe in the magic of my woods
+I lay, and watched the dying light.
+Faint in the pale high solitudes,
+And washed with rain and veiled by night,
+
+Silver and blue and green were showing.
+And the dark woods grew darker still;
+And birds were hushed; and peace was growing;
+And quietness crept up the hill;
+
+And no wind was blowing...
+
+And I knew
+That this was the hour of knowing,
+And the night and the woods and you
+Were one together, and I should find
+Soon in the silence the hidden key
+Of all that had hurt and puzzled me --
+Why you were you, and the night was kind,
+And the woods were part of the heart of me.
+@P
+And there I waited breathlessly,
+Alone; and slowly the holy three,
+The three that I loved, together grew
+One, in the hour of knowing,
+Night, and the woods, and you --
+
+And suddenly
+There was an uproar in my woods,
+The noise of a fool in mock distress,
+Crashing and laughing and blindly going,
+Of ignorant feet and a swishing dress,
+And a Voice profaning the solitudes.
+@P
+The spell was broken, the key denied me,
+And at length your flat clear voice beside me
+Mouthed cheerful clear flat platitudes.
+
+You came and quacked beside me in the wood.
+You said, 'The view from here is very good!'
+You said, 'It's nice to be alone a bit!'
+And, 'How the days are drawing out!' you said.
+You said, 'The sunset's pretty, isn't it?'
+
+* * *
+
+By God! I wish -- I wish that you were dead!
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T On a Tired Housewife
+
+Here lies a poor woman who was always tired,
+She lived in a house where help wasn't hired;
+Her last words on earth were: 'Dear friends, I am going
+To where there's no cooking, or washing, or sewing,
+For everything there is exact to my wishes,
+For where they don't eat there's no washing of dishes.
+I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
+But having no voice I'll be quit of the singing.
+Don't mourn for me now, don't mourn for me never,
+I am going to do nothing for ever and ever.'
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T On Johnny Cole
+
+Here lies Johnny Cole
+Who died, on my soul,
+After eating a plentiful dinner;
+While chewing his crust,
+He was turned into dust,
+With his crimes undigested - poor sinner.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T On a Wag in Mauchline
+
+Lament him, Mauchline husbands a',
+He often did assist ye;
+For had ye staid whole weeks awa',
+Your wives they ne'er had missed ye.
+
+Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass,
+To schools in bands thegither,
+Oh, tread ye lightly on his grass,
+Perhaps he was your father.
+
+@A Robert Burns
+#
+@T Willie's Epitaph
+
+Little Willie from his mirror
+Licked the mercury right off,
+Thinking, in his childish error,
+It would cure the whooping cough.
+At the funeral his mother
+Smartly turned to Mrs Brown:
+''Twas a chilly day for Willie
+When the mercury went down.'
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T On Mary Ann Lowder
+
+Here lies the body of Mary Ann Lowder,
+She burst while drinking a seidlitz powder.
+Called from this world to her heavenly rest,
+She should have waited till it effervesced.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T On Miss Arabella Young
+
+Here lies, returned to clay,
+Miss Arabella Young,
+Who on the first day of May
+Began to hold her tongue.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T From The Westminster Drollery, 1671
+
+I saw a peacock with a fiery tail
+I saw a blazing comet drop down hail
+I saw a cloud wrapped with ivy round
+I saw an oak creep upon the ground
+I saw a pismire swallow up a whale
+I saw the sea brimful of ale
+I saw a Venice glass full fifteen feet deep
+I saw a well full of men's tears that weep
+I saw red eyes all of a flaming fire
+I saw a house bigger than the moon and higher
+I saw the sun at twelve o'clock at night
+I saw the man that saw this wondrous sight.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Epigram
+
+Engraved on the collar which I gave to his
+Royal Highness Frederick Prince of Wales:
+
+I am his Highness' dog at Kew
+Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
+
+@A Alexander Pope
+#
+@T A Man of Words
+
+A man of words and not of deeds,
+Is like a garden full of weeds;
+And when the weeds begin to grow,
+It's like a garden full of snow;
+And when the snow begins to fall,
+It's like a bird upon the wall;
+And when the bird away does fly,
+It's like an eagle in the sky;
+And when the skye begins to roar,
+It's like a lion at the door;
+And when the door begins to crack,
+It's like a stick across your back;
+And when your back begins to smart,
+It's like a penknife in your heart;
+And when your heart begins to bleed,
+You're dead, and dead, and dead indeed.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T The Voice of the Lobster
+
+''Tis the voice of the Lobster; I heard him declare,
+"You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
+As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
+Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
+When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
+And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:
+But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
+His voice has a timid and tremuous sound.
+
+'I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
+How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie:
+The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
+While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat.
+When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
+Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
+While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
+And concluded the banquet by --'
+
+@A Lewis Carroll
+#
+@T Lines by a Humanitarian
+
+Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,
+And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
+Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,
+And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.
+Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,
+Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive;
+When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee --
+Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T The Common Cormorant
+
+The common cormorant or shag
+Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
+The reason you will see no doubt
+It is to keep the lightning out.
+But what these unobservant birds
+Have never noticed is that herds
+Of wandering bears may come with buns
+And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.
+
+@A Anonymous
+#
+@T Imitation of Chaucer
+
+Women ben full of Ragerie,
+Yet swinken not sans secresie
+Thilke Moral shall ye understand,
+From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond:
+Which to the Fennes hath him betake,
+To filch the gray Ducke fro the Lake.
+Right then, there passen by the Way
+His Aunt, and eke her Daughters tway.
+Ducke in his Trowses hath he hent,
+Not to be spied of Ladies gent.
+'But ho! our Nephew,' (crieth one)
+'Ho,' quoth another, 'Cozen John';
+And stoppen, and laugh, and callen out, --
+This sely Clerk full low doth lout:
+@P
+They asken that, and talken this,
+'Lo here is Coz, and here is Miss.'
+But, as he glozeth with Speeches soote,
+The Ducke sore tickleth his Erse-root:
+Fore-piece and buttons all-to-brest,
+Forth thrust a white neck, and red crest.
+'Te-he,' cry'd Ladies; Clerke nought spake:
+Miss star'd; and gray Ducke crieth Quake.
+'O Moder, Moder' (quoth the daughter)
+'Be thilke same thing Maids longen a'ter?
+'Better is to pyne on coals and chalke,
+'Then trust on Mon, whose yerde can talke.'
+
+@A Alexander Pope
+#
+@T Sonnet
+
+Live with me, and be my love,
+And we will all the pleasures prove
+That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
+And all the craggy mountains yields.
+
+There will we sit upon the rocks,
+And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
+By shallow rivers, by whose falls
+Melodious birds sing madrigals.
+
+There will I make thee a bed of roses,
+With a thousand fragrant posies,
+A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
+Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.
+@P
+A belt of straw and ivy buds,
+With coral clasps and amber studs;
+And if these pleasures may thee move,
+Then live with me and be my love.
+
+LOVE'S ANSWER
+
+If that the world and love were young,
+And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
+These pretty pleasures might me move
+To live with thee and be thy love.
+
+@A William Shakespeare
+#
+@T O No, John!
+
+On yonder hill there stands a creature;
+Who she is I do not know.
+I'll go and court her for her beauty,
+She must answer yes or no.
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+
+On her bosom are bunches of posies,
+On her breast where flowers grow;
+If I should chance to touch that posy,
+She must answer yes or no.
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+
+Madam I am come for to court you,
+If your favour I can gain;
+If you will but entertain me,
+Perhaps then I might come again.
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+
+My husband was a Spanish captain,
+Went to sea a month ago;
+The very last time we kissed and parted,
+Bid me always answer no.
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+@P
+Madam in your face is beauty,
+In your bosom flowers grow;
+In your bedroom there is pleasure,
+Shall I view it, yes or no?
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+
+Madam shall I tie your garter,
+Tie it a little above your knee;
+If my hands should slip a little farther,
+Would you think it amiss of me?
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+
+My love and I went to bed together,
+There we lay till cocks did crow;
+Unclose your arms my dearest jewel,
+Unclose your arms and let me go.
+O no, John! No, John! No, John! No!
+
+@A Old English Folk Song
+#
+@T Unfortunate
+
+Heart, you are as restless as a paper scrap
+That's tossed down dusty pavements by the wind;
+Saying, 'She is most wise, patient and kind.
+Between the small hands folded in her lap
+Surely a shamed head may bow down at length,
+And find forgiveness where the shadows stir
+About her lips, and wisdom in her strength,
+Peace in her peace. Come to her, come to her!' . . .
+
+She will not care. She'll smile to see me come,
+So that I think all Heaven in flower to fold me.
+She'll give me all I ask, kiss me and hold me,
+And open wide upon that holy air
+The gates of peace, and take my tiredness home,
+Kinder than God. But, heart, she will not care.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T The Busy Heart
+
+Now that we've done our best and worst, and parted,
+I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend.
+(O heart, I do not dare go empty-hearted)
+I'll think of Love in books, Love without end;
+Women with child, content; and old men sleeping;
+And wet strong ploughlands, scarred for certain grain;
+And babes that weep, and so forget their weeping;
+And the young heavens, forgetful after rain;
+And evening hush, broken by homing wings;
+And Song's nobility, and Wisdom holy,
+That live, we dead. I would think of a thousand things,
+Lovely and durable, and taste them slowly,
+One after one, like tasting a sweet food.
+I have need to busy my heart with quietude.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Love
+
+Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
+Where that comes in that shall not go again;
+Love sells the proud heart's citadel to Fate.
+They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then
+When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
+And agony's forgot, and hushed the crying
+Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- such are but taking
+Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
+Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
+Some share that night. But they know, love grows colder,
+Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
+Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
+But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
+All this love; and all love is but this.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T One Day
+
+Today I have been happy. All the day
+I held the memory of you, and wove
+Its laughter with the dancing light o' the spray,
+And sowed the sky with tiny clouds of love,
+And sent you following the white waves of sea,
+And crowned your head with fancies, nothing worth,
+Stray buds from that old dust of misery,
+Being glad with a new foolish quiet mirth.
+
+So lightly I played with those dark memories,
+Just as a child, beneath the summer skies,
+Plays hour by hour with a strange shining stone,
+For which (he knows not) towns were fire of old,
+And love has been betrayed, and murder done,
+And great kings turned to a little bitter mould.
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
+#
+@T Doubts
+
+When she sleeps, her soul, I know,
+Goes a wanderer on the air,
+Wings where I may never go,
+Leaves her lying, still and fair,
+Waiting, empty, laid aside,
+Like a dress upon a chair...
+This I know, and yet I know
+Doubts that will not be denied.
+
+For if the soul be not in place,
+What has laid trouble in her face?
+And, sits there nothing ware and wise
+Behind the curtains of her eyes,
+What is it, in the self's eclipse,
+Shadows, soft and passingly,
+About the corners of her lips,
+The smile that is essential she?
+
+And if the spirit be not there,
+Why is fragrance in the hair?
+
+@A Rupert Brooke
projects / wxWidgets.git / commitdiff
