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Shepherd and Nymph

Which poem do you like best? Passionate Shepherd Nymph's Reply I like them both I don't like either I don't know Current Results

AUDIO POEMS

Wreck of the Hesperus
Longfellow
But Once
Marion Harland
Casey at the Bat
Ernest Thayer
Professional Men
Ogden Nash
Abou Ben Adhem
Leigh Hunt
Wild Swans at Coole
W.B. Yeats
Daffodils
William Wordsworth
Owl and The Pussycat
Edward Lear

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My Native Land
Sir Walter Scott
A Bird Came Down
Emily Dickinson
Mighty Lak a Rose
Frank Lebby Stanton
O Magali
Frédéric Mistral
The Village Blacksmith
Longfellow
Fueled
Marcie Hans

The Passionate Shepherd
To His Love
by Christopher Marlowe

COME live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

There will we sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

The Nymph's Reply
To The Shepherd
by Sir Walter Raleigh

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.

Time drives the 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.

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