Port Ceiriad Bay

Descended to the shore, odd how we left
the young girl with us to herself, and went
straight to examine the stratified cliffs,
forgot her entirely in our interest.

You marvelled at the shapes the clockwork sea
had worn the stone, talking keenly, until
the pace of this random sculpture recalled
your age to you, and then its anodynes.

And so you turned, pretending youth, courting
the girl as if you were a boy again,
leaving the wry cliffs to their erosion
and me to my observant solitude.

Ben Jonson

Ben Jonson was an English playwright and poet, best known for his satirical plays and lyric poetry. Born on June 11, 1572, Jonson's works, including 'Volpone' and 'The Alchemist,' were critical of social norms and human follies. A contemporary and rival of Shakespeare, he was a significant figure in English Renaissance literature. Jonson also contributed to the development of English poetry through his masques and epigrams. He died on August 6, 1637.

Ben Jonson

A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Savior

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

It Is Not Growing Like A Tree

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

Nine Stages Towards Knowing

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

Song To Celia (2)

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

English

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At A Seaside Town In 1869 - Young Lover's Reverie

I went and stood outside myself,
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Then next inside myself I looked,
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        We sang old love-songs on the way
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On The Beach.

Lines By A Private Tutor.



When the young Augustus Edward
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From my left-hand waistcoat pocket
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And I commune with it, walking on the beach.

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On my arm, set up so horrible a screech
That I pitch them to their nurses
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And resume my lucubrations on the beach.

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Ave, Soror

    I left behind the ways of care,
        The crowded hurrying hours,
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        I plucked the woodland flowers:

    Bluebells as yet but half awake,
        Primroses pale and cool,
    Anemones like stars that shake
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We reached the place by night,
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To show the path we were taking.
A myrtle, trained on the gate, was white
With tufted flowers down shaking.

With head beneath her wing,
A little wren was sleeping -
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To steal her for my keeping
From the myrtle-bough that with easy swing
Across the path was sweeping.

Down rocky steps rough-hewed,
Where cup-mosses flowered,
And under the trees, all twisted and rude,
Wherewith the dell was dowered,
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The thatch was all bespread
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It is in sooth a lovely tress,
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    "Forget the giver not."
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But none was lovely as the eye
    That shone beside me there!

Above our heads an ancient oak
    Its strong, wide arms held out,
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