George Herbert (1593–1633)
"Man"

My God, I heard this day
That none doth build a stately habitation,
But he that means to dwell therein.
What house more stately hath there been,
Or can be, than is Man? to whose creation
All things are in decay.

For Man is every thing,
And more: he is a tree, yet bears more fruit;
A beast, yet is or should be more:
Reason and speech we only bring.
Parrots may thank us, if they are not mute,
They go upon the score.

Man is all symmetry,
Full of proportions, one limb to another,
And all to all the world besides:
Each part may call the furthest, brother;
For head with foot hath private amity,
And both with moons and tides.

Nothing hath got so far,
But man hath caught and kept it, as his prey.
His eyes dismount the highest star:
He is in little all the sphere.
Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they
Find their acquaintance there.

For us the winds do blow,
The earth doth rest, heaven move, and fountains flow.
Nothing we see but means our good,
As our delight or as our treasure:
The whole is either our cupboard of food,
Or cabinet of pleasure.

The stars have us to bed;
Night draws the curtain, which the sun withdraws;
Music and light attend our head.
All things unto our flesh are kind
In their descent and being; to our mind
In their ascent and cause.

Each thing is full of duty:
Waters united are our navigation;
Distinguishèd, our habitation;
Below, our drink; above, our meat;
Both are our cleanliness. Hath one such beauty?
Then how are all things neat?

More servants wait on Man
Than he'll take notice of: in every path
He treads down that which doth befriend him
When sickness makes him pale and wan.
O mighty love! Man is one world, and hath
Another to attend him.

Since then, my God, thou hast
So brave a palace built, O dwell in it
That it may dwell with thee at last!
Till then, afford us so much wit,
That, as the world serves us, we may serve thee,
And both thy servants be.


Kenneth Carroll (1959– )
"Riding Shotgun"
For Morris & Mary Carroll, my grandparents

You riding shotgun, grandma said
my face glazed over with ignorance
in all my 12 years I had never heard such a thing
riding shotgun? I repeated seeking an explanation
all I knew was that I was sitting next to grandpa in the front seat
close enough to smell his hi-karate after-shave &
trace the veins in his hands as they knitted like winding creeks
around his slender fists & unfurled as long rivers up his arms
the front seat with grandpa, a rare allowance for a child born
in a time when a lack of reverence for any adult
could find your behind burning from an adroit switching
in the backseat my jealous brothers & sisters rolled their eyes
snaking their tongues furiously out of their mouths to mock me
grandma broke the term down—riding shotgun
there was something john wayne-ish about it
something my cowboy-&-indian-playing ass could dig
the image was phat,
I imagined myself, Nat Love of the projects
afro peeking out from the brim of my Stetson
steel-faced, eagle-eyed brother, winchester
between my legs, scouring the horizon for
bandits & navajo
I wish I could have seen the cancer coming that took grandma
or the alcoholism that would steal my father’s eyes from me
but my job was simple, to make sure the coast was free
of obstruction for grandpa’s bifocal maneuverings as
we headed to our ancestral grounds in upper marlboro
what ya see boy, asked grandpa intermittently
even when it was obvious he needed no help
my eyes spinning like the pontiac’s hubcaps, never leaving
the road
I answered simply
its all clear over here grandpa
& it was as far as I could see.

© Kenneth Carroll

William Shakespeare
"Sonnet 18"

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st:
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Anne Bradstreet
"To My Dear and Loving Husband"

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were lov'd by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me ye women if you can.
I prize thy love more then whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence.
Thy love is such I can no way repay,
The heavens reward thee manifold I pray.
Then while we live, in love let's so persevere,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.