Handout 5

1. Francis William Bourdillon (1852-1921)

The Night has a Thousand Eyes

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one:

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When love is done. (Rhyme scheme is abab abab.)

2. A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns (1759-1796

Oh my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
Oh my luve is like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve 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;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile !

3. O Western Wind by Anonymous

O Western wind, when wilt thou blow
That the small rain down can rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
And I in my bed again!

4. Upon Julia's Clothes (1648) by Robert Herrick

Whenas 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!

5. Sonnet by Billy Collins All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,and after this one just a dozento launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,then only ten more left like rows of beans.How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethanand insist the iambic bongos must be playedand rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,one for every station of the cross.But hang on here wile we make the turninto the final six where all will be resolved,where longing and heartache will find an end,where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,take off those crazy medieval tights,blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.

6. Song by Edmund Waller (1606-1687)

Go, lovely rose--
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die!-- that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!