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Pastimes : May Day, also known as Beltane -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: jbe who wrote (690)	4/28/1999 11:30:00 PM
From: Ilaine	Read Replies (3) \| Respond to of 2063

That is such a good poem. "My vegetable love may grow, vaster than empires, and more slow." May I post my favorite poem? I am not sure whether it is a propos to Beltane, but it responds to your post. It's by Archibald Macleish, entitled, "You, Andrew Marvell." I think of it when I think of Steven, on the other side of the world. YOU, ANDREW MARVELL And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth's noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night To feel creep up the curving east The earthy chill of dusk and slow Upon those under lands the vast And ever climbing shadow grow And strange at Ecbatan the trees Take leaf by leaf the evening strange The flooding dark about their knees The mountains over Persia change And now at Kermanshah the gate Dark empty and the withered grass And through the twilight now the late Few travelers in the westward pass And Baghdad darken and the bridge Across the silent river gone And through Arabia the edge Of evening widen and steal on And deepen on Palmyra's street The wheel rut in the ruined stone And Lebanon fade out and Crete High through the clouds and overblown And over Sicily the air Still flashing with the landward gulls And loom and slowly disappear The sails above the shadowy hulls And Spain go under the the shore Of Africa the gilded sand And evening vanish and no more The low pale light across that land Nor now the long light on the sea And here face downward in the sun To feel how swift how secretly The shadow of the night comes on... Archibald MacLeish

To: jbe who wrote (690)	4/29/1999 2:36:00 AM
From: nihil	Read Replies (3) \| Respond to of 2063

I rather liked Walter Raleigh's Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd If all 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. But time drives flocks from field to fold; When rivers rage and rocks grow cold; And Philomel becometh dumb; The rest complains of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward Winter reckoning yields; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies, Soon break, soon wither, -- soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs -- All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy Love. But could youth last, and love still breed, Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy Love.