Richard Hovey

I am fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.
...

You to the left and I to the right,
For the ways of men must sever—
And it well may be for a day and a night,
And it well may be forever.
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We came to birth in battle; when we pass,
It shall be to the thunder of the drums.
We are not one that weeps and saith Alas,
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As one of those huge monsters of the sky,
Fierce with the flame of fiery floating hair,
Falls from the zenith through the upper air,
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IF thou canst not from some superior sphere
Look down upon this world that gave thee birth
Or from some glad abode of stingless mirth
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There is no escape by the river,
There is no flight left by the fen;
We are compassed about by the shiver
Of the night of their marching men.
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HO, a song by the fire!
(Pass the pipes, fill the bowl!)
Ho, a song by the fire!
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My love for thee doth take me unaware,
   When most with lesser things my brain is wrought,
   As in some nimble interchange of thought
The silence enters, and the talkers stare.
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Comrades, pour the wine to-night
For the parting is with dawn!
Oh, the clink of cups together,
With the daylight coming on!
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I SOMETIMES long to throw my books away
And to forget the thoughts that make me sad-
The mighty musings that have ever clad
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WHEN we are dead I firmly do believe
We shall slip back into the primal sea
Of the universal life, that there shall be
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POET! thou art to me a faery king
Dwelling in some weird place of witchery,
Some garden where unnumbered roses vie
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GONE art thou, then, O mystical musician!
Pure-thoughted singer of these sinful years!
No more shall dreams and doubts and hopes and fears
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ALL too grotesque our thoughts are sometimes. Odd,
That there will come a day when you and I
Shall not be you and I! that we shall lie-
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What painter has not with a careless smutch
Accomplished his despair?-one touch revealing
All he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling,
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Ho, a song by the fire;
Pass the pipes, pass the bowl.
Ho, a song by the fire
With a skoal, with a skoal.
...

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor,
When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara!
With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing,
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(A.H. Quint)

MOURN we who honored him but knew him not;
Grieve ye who loved him, looking on his face;
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The dawn is lonely for the sun,
And chill and drear;
The one lone star is pale and wan
As one in fear.
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THESE college days of jollity and mirth
How pleasurable are they and how serene,
...