<|endoftext|> Dance, dance. And your hair I’ll brush, and I’ll smooth your waist, And sing in praise of your thighs like anyone knows. So fat and smooth. I’ll take you home. And I’ll love you, fat and smooth. <|endoftext|> "When You Think", by Ben Lerner [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics] When you think of speech, you think of words that need to be bound in rope words that won’t be so much to me. Words that vibrate a sad little drowsy hum. I can hear them in my head all a-quiver. You too can hear them in your head. We are always so sensitive about what we think. <|endoftext|> "Getting Things For a Girl on Her Birthday", by Ben Lerner [Living, Birthdays] When you get something for a girl on her birthday, grab a fork, because you’ll want to eat the edible version of dirt. Her crusty bread, her salt-chicken pot pie, and her paté are good choices. But the real treat is a smoothie on a stick. It comes in a straw and you pull it from the juicy carton like a puppy. Her mocha fudge and her chocolate sundae are good too. But the stick is best. The stick is as addictive as the roll. <|endoftext|> "Ticks", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Health & Illness, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] Ticks are tiny bloodhounds with a bulldog mouth and a life span of about five seconds. They are small, pink, mosquitoes with a tan to their wings. On your face, they leave a pouty frowny face. Tick-tock, tick-tock. They are everywhere, like crickets in a park quietly singing. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I get nervous around them. They tell me they are hunting wildebeest. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I get nervous around them. Their very presence makes me nervous around them. They look like feral dogs and they hunt like wolves. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Tick-tick, tick-tock. I'm serious about this. Tick-tock. <|endoftext|> "Refrains for a Small Dance", by Ben Lerner [Living, The Mind, Arts & Sciences, Music] A lit match flips a face of pale smoke, floating away like a kiss made in the darkness. Music is often the closest you can get to the perfect ending of love. <|endoftext|> "My Mother's Snare", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] My mother's snare sounds like rain picking up the strings of the rain, then the trees, picking up the strings of the trees. It's the last refrain of a small song my mother wants to finish, but cannot. <|endoftext|> "A Visit", by Ben Lerner [Living, Health & Illness, Relationships, Home Life, Men & Women] A visit: a) a fat man steps on my toe; b) my father jumps on my toe; c) my mother trips on my toe; d) the house is on fire; e) there's an animal in the attic; f) my aunt is hiding the animal; g) my father's father came from Hungary; h) my father had six kids; i) my grandfather came from a country in the swamps; j) I broke my nose bone; k) I kissed a girl; l) I broke up with a girl; m) I caught a fish; n) I put a load of laundry; o) I lost a child; p) I had a hemorrhoid; q) I met a soul; r) I met a soul's two children; s) I made a mistake; t) I met a man; u) I got a new motorbike; v) I broke a nail; w) I ate too much; x) the matchbox house; y) the snooty uncle; z) I got the yellow light; {hymn} a) a fat man stepped on my toe b) my father jumped on my toe c) my mother tripped on my toe d) the house is on fire e) there's an animal in the attic f) my aunt is hiding the animal g) my father's father came from Hungary h) my father had six kids i) my grandfather came from a country in the swamps j) I broke my nose bone k) I kissed a girl l) I broke up with a girl m) I caught a fish n) I put a load of laundry o) I lost a child p) I broke a nail w) I ate too much x) the matchbox house y) the snooty uncle z) I got the yellow light {hymn} a) a fat man stepped on my toe b) my father jumped on my toe c) my mother tripped on my toe d) the house is on fire e) there's an animal in the attic f) my aunt is hiding the animal g) my father's father came from Hungary h) my father had six kids i) my grandfather came from a country in the swamps j) I broke my nose bone k) I kissed a girl l) I broke up with a girl m) I caught a fish n) I put a load of laundry o) I lost a child p) I broke a nail w) I ate too much x) the matchbox house y) the snooty uncle z) I got the yellow light <|endoftext|> "St. Patrick's Day", by Ben Lerner [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] An animal rises from the cover of the poem, and the animal lifts its shirt and its wings fly upward and spread out as the animal raises its arms and its arms raise their hands to form the words that form the words, which are words as the animal lifts its shirt and its wings fly upward and spread out to form the city, which are words as the animal raises its arms and its arms rise their hands to form the city which are words that form the city the city lifting its shirt and its wings flying upward and out of the city rises the animal, the animal that has become the city's bare ribs, the animal that is becoming the bare ribs of the city which are words, which are words that in turn are becoming, in constant transformation, the animal's rib the animal's naked rib which are words, words that in turn are becoming the animal rising from the city's cover, the city's ribs rising from the animal's skin, which are words, which are words that in turn are becoming the animal, which are words becoming the animal rising from the cover of the poem. <|endoftext|> "As the Ship Sails in the Gulf", by Ben Lerner [Living, Death, Life Choices, Parenthood, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Religion, Judaism, The Spiritual] The boat is leaving the port, I think. She isn't mine. I'm heading for the island. A few more hours, I think. The boat is leaving the port, I think. The children are dancing in the parlor, I'm heading for the island. She isn't mine. I'm heading for the island. My parents are preparing the dinner, I'm heading for the island. The boat is leaving the port, I'm heading for the island. The children are dancing in the parlor, I'm heading for the island. <|endoftext|> "Harlem Hells", by Ben Lerner [Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] for John Hillma 1. The church spires look like birdshit in this little layer cake of Hmong water-guzzling whiskey, Blackberry-pie sweetened condensed milk, White-vine-juice gusting from lilac, kudzu, field dust, Gestapo grapevine spinach, and #3 pencil lead. The Sinthome sky rolls down to meet the little city like a blanket smacking your head. Nothing works the daze like Black astral vapor Miss Sofia, The Black Dirt Napalm Bowl, the Poetry in Flames bath, the Ice Creations bed. 2. Who will ride the snide brown train to whiteplace? What hippopotamus in black liquoredud reflection? Who will climb the pylon to blackplace? Who will fall from blackplace to whiteplace? Who will rock the cradle with more than just blackplank who? 3. You could tell a soul of fangs bristling in ebony fissure, a shape on fire, an altar made of ears, a thorn tree of hearteyes and one ear that's missing. Of the last of the fugitives sitting on the hood of the car where? What? What? You could say: a boat of twine light as shadow through the No Central Park doors to the playground of children whose name becomes the story of their home. 4. If you are not a god, what is the god of you? In the longest night, the longest dawn, what do we do? There's a manhole in the park sucks in men, then sucks them in back to the suffocating earth. We shiver in the park, wearing the rain like a garment, our hair drenched, our eyes sucking the wind. What are we? What's beautiful about us is that we are not to be found. <|endoftext|> "In the First Months", by Li-Young Lee [Living, Coming of Age, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Gender & Sexuality] The boy comes home from his long walk to find his sister sitting at the table in the bright light of morning. She has poured him a glass of milk and sits at the kitchen table in the light light of morning. The man who watches the man walks down the hall to his daughter's room in the bright light of morning. He takes off his coat and sits on the bed in the bright light of morning. His daughter eats her milk and rises from her bed in the bright light of morning. The man looks down at the man and then at the milk in his hand. A man in dark pants walks down the hall to his daughter's room in the bright light of morning. He lies down on the bed in the bright light of morning. He dreams of his daughters as they grow up and of his daughters' lovers. In the long night, in the first months, the boy opens his door to find his sister sitting at the table in the bright light of morning. She has poured him a glass of milk and sits at the kitchen table in the bright light of morning. And as he pours it for her she starts to cry. And she sits at the kitchen table in the bright light of morning. <|endoftext|> "Song of the Three Sisters", by Mark Doty [Living, Life Choices, Marriage & Companionship, Parenthood, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment, Gender & Sexuality] A mash of oak, sand, and soil bleats like a stream through the forbidden place. Harsh light dulls the space. The clematis, swollen with some fierce intrusion, don't want to grow. The men are setting the pickets up for the lot of the newcomer. An Indian band is how we'll mark this place, says this man. The women are watching from the rearview. The newcomers aren't even here yet. They call the tribe and wait in the lot, like soldiers in a field with no tanks. The lot will never have a cart on it. The lot will never have a wagon or a tent. The lot will never have a plow or a hatchet. The lot will grow vegetables. The lot will grow corn, bean, radish, lettuce, and squash. It will grow herbs, garlic, onions, peas, turnips, corn again, and again. The lot will grow squash, herbs, onions, and cabbage. It will grow beans, peas, corn, and squash. It will grow lettuce, beans, and corn. It will grow onions, garlic, and green peas. It will grow squash, corn, beans, and cabbage. The lot will change to a country. The lot will change to a town. The lot will change to a city. The lot will change to a reservation. The lot will change to a bed and breakfast. The lot will change to a barter shop. It will grow olives, tomatoes, lettuce, and limes. It will grow corn, beans, peas, and squash. It will grow herbs, lettuce, and cabbage. It will grow corn, onions, limes, and squash. Corn will grow on the lot. It will grow squash, corn, herbs, and lettuce. Lettuce will grow in the lot. Tomatoes, limes, and peppers will grow in the lot. Salads will grow in the lot. Corn will grow on the lot. It will grow squash, herbs, and corn. Corn will grow on the lot. Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow on the lot. Salads will grow in the lot. Corn will grow on the lot. A lot will grow in the forbidden place. The lot will grow limes, limes, and tomatoes. Corn will grow in the forbidden place. Salads will grow in the forbidden place. Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow in the forbidden place. Corn will grow on the lot. The lot will grow limes, limes, and tomatoes. Corn will grow in the forbidden place. Salads will grow in the forbidden place. Lettuce, tomatoes, and peppers will grow in the forbidden place. Corn will grow on the lot. Water will come from somewhere. Water will come from the sky. Water will come from the rain. Water will come from the springs. We will catch a river fish and fry it in butter and vinegar. We will roast a fish over an open fire. We will boil a fish, then we will cut it to keep from swallowing its bones. We will cut the chickens free, and cut the ducks and ducks will come again and again to the rivers and the sea. We will shake and strain the seeds. We will eat the meat and bones. We will bend and break the sacred corn until the ears float back into the hole in the earth. We will plant the maize and soybeans. We will work and plant the vegetables. When the greens are showing, we will dig a hole and bury twigs for dry sticks to grow. When the tender shoots appear we will dig another hole, deeper than that, and bury sticks for dry twigs to make firewood. When the growing season beckons, we will move to the thickly growing area and bury wooden beams for fires. A lot will grow in the forbidden place. We will plant corn, beans, and squash in the forbidden place. We will dig and plant, and dig and plant, over and over again for the rest of our lives. When we can't dig or plant, we will look for stones and bury them in the forbidden place. We will bury sticks for firewood in the forbidden place. When we can't bury sticks, we will look for rivers and gather drinking water from the forbidden place. We will gather water from the forbidden place. When the settlers move in, we will go with them and move among them and their children. We will teach them the words of English and their tongue. We will teach them the words of English and their mother tongue. We will look for tracks and build roads for cars. We will bury wooden bridges in the forbidden place. When the settlers move out, we will go with them and move among them and their children. We will teach them the words of English and their tongue. We will teach them the words of English and their mother tongue. The place of landing will be remembered well. It will be a place of prayer and a place of pleasure. We will build a museum with plaques and artifacts. We will dig and find out the stories of the ancestors. We will build a library with shelves and books. We will bury books and bury the stories. We will bury wooden shelves for the books. We will build new, better shelves for the books. We will build a museum with words and artifacts. We will bury words and bury the stories. We will bury wooden shelves for the words. We will build new, better words and shelves for them. The place of death will be remembered well. It will be a place of prayer and a place of pleasure. We will build a museum with plaques and artifacts. We will dig and find out the stories of the ancestors. We will bury words and bury the stories. We will bury wooden shelves for the books. We will build new, better shelves for the books. <|endoftext|> "When I Am Gone", by Richard Emil Braun [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire, Philosophy] He said he would not break the seal that he knew by feeling the tiny round heads inside the bird and finding they had no meaning. He would lift the bird out of the bottle and place it on the ledge. He would break the neck of the seal for the drop of mercury in the cup. His grandfather said it was absurd to believe in the birds that came to land on the shore and flew away. He said it was all a dream, a fantastic, senseless game that will end as soon as he pulled the bird from the bottle. He put the cup in the fire and the water in the fire and watched it burn. He had no fear and no more to say. <|endoftext|> "The Laughing Woman", by Richard Emil Braun [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Horror] When the men came with their crazy cries, stark heads blown neck- breaking, my grandmother, wearing a white coat, gathered the women and held them steady. We don't want to hurt you, she told us. We want to make you strong. We'll love you. The rain fell fast. My brother came back to find his nest of blankets, his blanket-roost of roses. The wood was so dry that he tried to count, but when he saw how many there were, he stopped. The woman had done this before, but it took weeks for her screams to dull. In the meantime, she slowly recovered. She would not lose faith, and over the next few years, she laughed, and laughed into her pillow, and smiled, and smiled. <|endoftext|> "On Christmas", by Richard Emil Braun [Christmas] The poinsettia waves its golden horns, and turns into a carnation. A baby dressed as a horse sings a lullaby, while the reindeer stands up, and tips his sleigh, turning into a red-and-white muleta. The snow falls down, but Santa Claus arrives late, and his sleigh is old and beat. His reindeer moved a little faster than the children, but when they asked to stop, he told them to go back where they came from. The little girl in the red dress opens her presents on the table, and pretends to find a card. She opens it, and there is no letter, and no present. She puts her hands in the air, and sings, "Oh, my Christmas tree, I can't find my present!" Christmas dinner is served up; the mountains of syrup are there. The reindeer are now ready to eat. The table is set with the treasured wine from the last Christmas, and the first Christmas, and the first birthday, and the fudge of the third Christmas, and the spit of the fourth Christmas, and the pudding of the fifth Christmas, and the apple of the sixth Christmas, and the plums of the seventh Christmas, and the marmalade of the eighth Christmas, and the ginger of the ninth Christmas, and the niblet of the tenth Christmas, and the cranberry of the eleventh Christmas, and the plum of the twelfth Christmas. And Santa Claus comes in his boat. He looks at the children with a smile, and dips his pen into the fountain. <|endoftext|> "Sugar Dada", by Richard Emil Braun [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Philosophy] The sea is empty. It is bright and open, a mirror, a great bell. I am at sea. I look out over my life, and see nothing there. I look down into my life, and see nothing here. I look down into my life, and see nothing here. I look into the mirror, and see nothing there. On the tin roof, the faery sandigo is burning. Its shadows stretch far and deep into the peas. I watch it burn, and watch the smoke curl up and hide in the tall corn. I watch it burn as it builds up strength, and joy, and rage. I watch it burn. Then I stand still. I watch the flame sink down into the peas. I watch it sink. And I watch it rise. I walk down the path. My sister is waiting for me. She has wrapped herself in the golden flame that squats in the garden like a woman with strange breasts. She beckons to me with her white hand, and her brown hand. She is singing a song. She sings, “Come, fat, come, lean, come, long. Come, fat, come, lean, come, long. Come down from your branches, come down from your branches. Come down from your branches and meet me under the sea.” She dances to the same song. Her white hand, her brown hand, her white hand, her brown hand, hover in the air, hovering. They beckon to me. They dance to the faery tune. And I stand still. I stand still. And I watch the flame go up into the peas. She dances to the song, to the song. She dances down to the pea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea. She dances down into the sea from the faery island. She dances into the blue and rolling foam. She dances down into the sea. And I stand still. I stand still. I watch her dancing, her white hand, her brown hand. I watch her dancing, and I watch her white hand. I stand still. I stand still. And I watch the flame sink down into the sea. I have taken all my pea-hoard into the great unknown. I have carved bitter pylons into the snow. I have named them. I have stretched tightropes over them. I have tied weights to them. I have launched them to the sky. I have sent them flying far and far. I have gripped the handles with reckless hands. I have let them go when they reached the sky. They were so light. I stood looking at the sky and could not bring myself to touch them. I have left my treasures at home. I have packed my balloons tightly. I have tied a white cloth around them. I have tied it to a pine tree. I have caught the white cloth to the tree. I will leave it there when I am gone. I have hung tightrope over the sky like Lawrence of Arabia. I have left my treasures at home. I have filled my hands in praise to the Lord my God. <|endoftext|> "Catchy Toms", by George Bradley [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Nature, Religion, Christianity] Take my heart, Jesus. I have wasted it on trays of pimentos, and lost ten years of my life. It is nothing special. The first year I used it I went to mass twice a day and faithfully did so. But I do not remember the organs shuddering when the bishop said, “Cardinal, we have found the heart.” But I do remember my mother shaking her head no. I have always been a bad boy, and my badness has been badness and will continue to be. Take my heart, Jesus. But you cannot keep it from me or I will come to you and I will tell you everything. <|endoftext|> "The Dance", by D. H. Lawrence [Living, The Body, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Theater & Dance] A swing is not a dance unless you do the swing in it. —Horace When the World Takes the House on the Heath The house was ours in the garden, green and coming up like an old man with a cough.The houses on the Heath? They couldn’t be ours, for they’d been Made by men, and they were made to carry men. How they must have smiled when we told them what we wanted them for! The holly and ivy grow out between the hedges to keep peopleOut, away. You can only see their legs in the hedges. And when people pass, they turn quickly to look at us. In the hedges, between hedges, a man makes a show of shooting stars,To try to get people out of the garden. The women in the gardens wear stiff smiles. Look, they even blink. It makes no difference. But there must be something to it, after all those years. This wonder-house-with-stars. We’ve lived here so long we know what’s real and what’s not. Now we know what it is. <|endoftext|> "Prayer for the Dead", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, The Body, Nature, Funerals] Some day the dead will come back to me.I will lie down and drown myself, one big shuddering gasp, one big rip, one big rip, one huge house-o’-fire, one last great slosh and one last great roll-in, one last cold cry, one final great lurch, one final shuddering pause, one final lunging at freedom.It will be a long time before I wake again. <|endoftext|> "Through This", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] They buried my father without a funeral. I buried my mother without a sleep. We did not go to the graveside though we wanted to. It was more respectful to leave them alone to bury their father and mother than to sift through earth and ash for every little stone. It’s morning already three decades later. The cold has lifted. I step over the uneven ground toward the small mound, past ivy, beech, beading grape leaves on their festal tables, the rotten fruit that stayed put in a paper bag, each apple a knife that cut before it could fall. I walk to the middle where the markers are set and I set my mother’s stone beside the wordmother. I fold my hands and pray for the hours we did not share. <|endoftext|> "All the Dogs in Boston", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] They buried my father without a funeral. I buried my mother without a sleep. We did not go to the graveside though we wanted to. It was more respectful to leave them alone to bury their father and mother than to sift through earth and ash for every little stone. It’s morning already three decades later. The cold has lifted. I step over the uneven ground toward the small mound, past ivy, beech, beading grape leaves on their festal tables, the rotten fruit that stayed put in a paper bag, each apple a knife that cut before it could fall. I walk to the middle where the markers are set and I set my father’s stone beside the wordfather. I fold my hands and pray for the hours we did not share. <|endoftext|> "Long As This Hand Lengths My Garden Bathed in Evening", by Ivan Griffith [Living, Coming of Age, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] 1 I don’t like to be told what to do. I like to do what comes. 2 My mother is in her grave. My father is in his. 3 I hang on their every word. I never forget the car door open and my mother’s laugh all about my ear until I can’t ignore it. 4 I would give up everything for the sound of her laugh. 5 You don’t have to be a saint to understand what that noise means. 6 My father and mother moved like ice. 7 This is how I touch the sky: I don’t mean my belly but my whole hand. 8 They would say, “Good morning, dear.” 9 The food was so cold my tears kept it cold. 10 When I am big as you, I’ll pick you up and shake you like a dog. <|endoftext|> "Elms", by Kate Colby [Activities, Gardening, Nature, Trees & Flowers] I like to dig and dig and dig for beautiful pink or blue tulips under the garden shade, for ancient dahlias in their formal leaves, for loose, pale stems of jasmine or sweet Bulgona medicinalica, or a shad that is just beginning to take its first small green twig from the cold. I like to dig because it is a kind of love. <|endoftext|> "Heaven", by Kate Colby [Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Sciences, Social Commentaries] It is an awful, awful, awful world and I want to get out of it as fast as I can. I want to stay in the water where I am reading now and drink and drink it all in. I am thirsty. I am standing in the world where I am supposed to be saved. I am a child and the world is hell and I want to go home as fast as I can. I am not supposed to be here. The world is hell and I am not supposed to be saved but I am and I am saved and I am not the world. I am the world and I want to go home as fast as I can. <|endoftext|> "Waste", by Kate Colby [Living, Death, The Body, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature] What is it is so wrong with me That I can’t let you Out. So I won’t let you out. <|endoftext|> "Cada Nube", by Kate Colby [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Activities, Indoor Activities, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Winter] For George Bernard Shaw There are days when happiness Is like a cake; You know the kind, thick and fabulous, Covered with frosting, Covered with larkspur, Covered with pink sea foam, Covered with snow; They rise and shrink from your hands, Like memories that have been lost, Turned to their illogical extremes. In the same way that these thin sweets Do nothing to restore the real World, the real mind, the real you, They do nothing to make you happy When they are on the plate. They rise and shrink from my heart like tears And make it sad and unfamiliar Like a room that has been taken away And turned into a room. They are a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long, And the sad heart that was glad of them Turns away in disgust. It is as if someone who had been Your friend and now has become a vast wasteland Had offered you some leftovers that were light And good but lacked the richness of the cake. They are a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long. You can smell them on the table where They have been devoured by rats and mice And the whole place has breathed in the scent. They are an enormous outpouring of love That has been written and then excised by a hand Too sensitive to cut properly. They are a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long. You can feel them on the tongue and in the fingers And taste the salt and curliness and fat And how the frost has stretched the butter threads And left the texture of the dish intact And poured through them a glaze of joy. They are so wonderful that when they are put Into the dish with the other things that are lovely Like little white doves and pink roses and snow You feel as if the dish had been an instrument In the hands of God all along that you had made Such things and so you cannot eat the dish. It is a kind of cold and soft frosting That has been left out in the cold too long. You are a horrible monster for devouring Things that are not for your hunger. <|endoftext|> "A Sky Full of Love", by Kate Colby [Living, Life Choices, The Mind, Activities, Travels & Journeys] I have been in love's iris After the sun has dried the air, And the sky has looked upon my face And said, it is twilight. In the course of all days, I have seen the earth turn over, I have come home to the same tall house And found the sky is the sky That I saw in another life, And I am myself again. I have learned the sky is old And is full of story. It holds all the time A huge world of light Like the sum of all the love That burned the world into dust Before the birth of the sun. I have seen the sky lose its way And wander all over the place Like a hickory after its kiss Of wild red grass. And it is beautiful in this place. <|endoftext|> "A Very Holy Man", by Kate Colby [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Men & Women] She lives in the basement of this house. Her clothes and hair are in such bad shape They are not fit for a dog to eat. Her eyes are the color of apple trees, And there is not a thing in them that moves. She has called this house the Holy One's, Because the carpet in the hallway And the beds and the chairs are sacred. My mother, who for years has believed In the goodness of men and the Holy One's, Who has forgiven everybody, Will have to forgive this woman, who has ruined This house of the Holy One. The man on the bus told me this story, And the man next door told me the same. I have known that he is going to die Since he was a child, And I have been waiting for him to die With reverence and fear, Because I knew he would not be holy As long as this woman is here. I have heard the bus drums roll, And the telephone wire clatter, And waited for death to do its work. I have prayed for the holy man, Because I knew he would not be holy As long as this woman is here. I have seen this woman upstairs This many a time. And now I know it is wrong to kill Any body, no matter what. And yet I have done it many times, For reasons that have nothing to do With faith in the Holy One. <|endoftext|> "Death of a Visitation", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Pets] On the stairs I left my English bulldog, His scratching and hunger and his constant fear Of the first, the second, the third person present, Of me, the lord of the estate. He died Under the wet, in the night, unusual sky. The dog I loved like a daughter, the dog I would have harmed or wanted in any way For the length of a visit or longer, Leaning from the balcony, tail wagging, Then running to me, wagging fast and faster, As if to ask what more I could want. The pooch, a cross between a bulldog and a fish, An early retriever of manhood, did not like The sudden change. He never understood My wanting him to understand, as I grew older, The need to own the company and be the man. I was his guardian and harbored him in a closet, Cooped in a room with a little wire cage Where he could bark without consequence. For the first month or two that he was a pup He barked away, mostly at the windows of trucks Or trains, which wheezed and complained About the rain, which couldn't drop there And was more than satisfied. The English bulldog was bred for fighting, As the bulldogs of Spain, the bulldogs of France, And the bulldogs of southern Italy, and the bulldogs of Sicily Went in the ring, combed their tails and, when they finished, Waved and barked and jumped through the closing gate, Or jumped and tossed their hands in the air And raced out on their pursuers. That was the dog that bit me, Sipping from my neck And sometimes my scalp, and leaving blood And urine that made me lay still And watch until he did it again. I wanted to guard him from harm, As I knew I could not survive My own attack by this dog. And I wondered, sometimes, how Others survived. I was glad to sleep When he slept, Unwilling to consider sleep a threat To dogs, but still alarmed by The fact that a living thing Could leave me alive. I worried about fire, Poison or a broken bone, For a dog was dead So long as there was blood. I didn't want to live, Being afraid Of being dead. But I knew the dog had bitten I wanted to help him, And I felt, sometimes, That I was helping, Because he was still here. I learned what fear was, And what it wasn't. I knew, too, that when a thing Died, the animal Would move on To the next thing In the right order, Until the thing It self-propagated, The next in the right order, The next in the right order Would die And so on, for all life. <|endoftext|> "Gilding the Mirror", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] The Republicans know the value of anger When there is nothing else to be had. The Democrats use it at their peril. The Republicans always go into it Angrily, And go out Angrily And there is nothing else to be had. The Democrats want it applied to them Angrily. They do not know the value of it Until it is applied to them. Then it is not so bad, And then they have no idea How badly they have it. Anger is a useful thing The Republicans always go into it Angrily. The Democrats want it taken away Angrily. Anger is a foolish thing The Republicans always go into it Angrily. They do not know what is in it Until it is taken from them And showed to them. And then they have no idea How bad it is. <|endoftext|> "A Little Shiver", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Friends & Enemies, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality] Once I knew a lesbian woman who was in her thirties, and she said, My mother was a disaster from birth to death. She had three daughters, and she slept with all of them. My mother's life was ruined. Now, my mother is in her eighties, and she has two kidneys. Angela, my other mother, is in her eighties, and she has a heart valve problem. When one gets a cold, one shakes a little and cries, and then one sits in a chair, and then one sits on a chair. Angela and my other mother are in their eighties, and they have problems that I do not know about. The whole world is a memory. And the heart has a lot of problems, But not the memory. It is the other way around. One can die one's youth, And memory is endless. They had gone to the home of one of my cousins. My mother asked them not to come back, and they refused to listen to her. They would drink whisky every week, they would go to dances, they would sleep with men, and not tell me, and not even get married. They died in their forties and fifties, but I never knew them. My memory is of a life that is over. I have a cold, and I am in bed, exhausted, shuffling my feet, and thinking of my childhood. I was on my mother's side, and now I am on my father's. My heart is full of memories, and I do not know which to choose. <|endoftext|> "On Art and the Poet", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] It is not the steps of the temple that provide the rising action, the burning of oil, the piling up of blocks, the turning of heavy wheels, and the burden of wares that give the ideal, but the imperfect behavior, the extravagant action of the mind in the working of its own parts. . . . . . . . Is it a cloud, it asks, is it a bird? I tell you it is the heart of a child, and I have heard what that heart can do. <|endoftext|> "Fireflies Over the City", by Reginald O'Hare Gibson [Living, Death, Activities, Travels & Journeys, Nature, Animals, Religion] Fireflies over the city tonight like silver talons, like the long lives of ants, a long knife edge across my cheek. I am so tired of being alive. I am so tired of being dead. In the black hole of space I am waiting for something to ignite. I am so tired of waiting for something to ignite that I have taken off my clothes. I am so tired of taking off my clothes that I am afraid to turn around. I am so tired of being afraid of what is in front of me and behind my back and thirty feet in front of me, and in my head, the bugs. They have been instructed to move by some outside force. They have been told to move. A silver metronome in the night sky is giving the insects a cruel metronome. They are timing their lives so carefully and there is nothing they can do to escape. They are timing their lives, and there is nothing they can do to escape the silver metronome. In the open window I can see a fly in the air setting a matchhead on fire, and another fly somewhere behind my right shoulder at the hem of my shirt. I can hear the puffed cheeks of the girl in the next room, and the short terrified cry of the girl in the next room. The metronome in the night sky is giving the insects a cruel metronome. What are the insects doing in the night sky? What are they waiting for? <|endoftext|> "Sonnet for Dawn", by Ravi Shankar [Living, Death, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals, Religion, Other Religions, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics] I have eaten the fruit of the never-lasting hour in which the god of commerce willed no one ever to leave his show for a season of meaning. On the surface my money would say duffer—I have taken no debts but I had no heart for commerce. Like an addict I grew like a devouring flower of commerce, keeping score in the scoreboard of business, myself the most important thing, the thing that no one knew and no one will ever know. In the age of the banyan I could not imagine my life and the life of the banyan never the same, my body a kind of commercial, my essence a kind of merchandise. No one knows how long I lived as a poet in the city and no one knows how much I died as a poet in the city. No one knows the dream I had every evening, it was a dream of my own death and I awoke from it with my eyes taped behind my head like an executioner's. I will never know why I was so bad at my job. I will never build a bridge or a museum or a park. I will never write another word of prose. But if I could I would give up poetry forever and ever as a means of holding on to what I had in the city, of keeping alive the score in the scoreboard of my business. As if my death were an act of merciful recall, as if my life were an auction and I myself the item of auction, the lowest bidder, a thing that bought no happiness for myself or for anyone. <|endoftext|> "for Emily", by Ravi Shankar [Love, Desire, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life, Class, History & Politics, Money & Economics, Town & Country Life, War & Conflict] Emily was a parabatra, Emily was a parabatra. How to talk to her about the trees Emily never asked me. Her hands moved under her, Emily was a real stickler Emily was a real stickler for shape. She'd see the Bumpus Brown for sale In the Village Books on Madison And stand in the doorway Reading the author's bio Until the voice of me and her past Thrilled and heaved and blown her forward. And when Emily was a girl Her father sent her to live with us, In this house across the river, To learn the ways of saving and selling And putting away profligate money. How to go up and down these streets Emily never asked me. How to stand in the best light When entering a room And look one full 360 degrees To see everything that's worth seeing And how much there is to see. And how to put it all away In a month, in advance, For she was a bird of passage Emily was a bird of passage. She was a bright flame that burned And died and was reborn So many times before. How to go up and down these streets Emily never asked me. How to stand in the best light And how to stand in the best light And stand in the best light and stand in the best light. <|endoftext|> "A Poem about Poetry", by Ravi Shankar [Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets] for Richard Wilbur You see a leaf is blooming, a twig A bird is flying, a dog is Growling—what does it all mean? You see a river is flowing, a stump A cave is opening, a boy is playing, A girl is sewing, what does it all mean? All things have endings, even you. <|endoftext|> "For Annie", by Ravi Shankar [Activities, Jobs & Working, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] When I am gone from here, Annie, Take what you will. I gave you all I had. I only ask you leave To take what you can get. I never wanted anything. I wanted you safe at home With your brother and father. I didn't want you working In any office, anywhere. I want you to be a queen, Annie, Tied up in your garden By your happy husband and father. I want you to be a princess, Sleeping in your garden bed. I want you to be a Buddhist, Kneeling on a hill of words, Watching the clouds come and go. I want you to be the same By which I've been blessed, Lest anything should change, You say, wherever I go. The more you tell me to be true The more I understand you. I was so tired when I came here I slept for an hour under the tree. A voice from the grave calls to me, I listen and do not hear, And if I did I'd hear the same. <|endoftext|> "Love Song", by Ravi Shankar [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Love, Break-ups & Vexed Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women] Love dies like a sword; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, scornful Of the one it has forgotten. The mind grows envious and envious And leaves the body empty. The body grows empty and lets The mind go its way. Love dies like a flower; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, becoming Like the plant it has hitherto Tamed, and forsakes its mother. The mind becomes envious and envious And breeds its opposite. The opposite breeds like its own— A shadow and a liar. Love dies like a ship; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, sinking Into the sea of sleep, having Blessed the one for whom it sailed. The mind grows envious and envious And leaves the lover lonely. The lover lonely holds on Till the days and nights are sung, Then lets himself be taken By the one he thought was true. Love dies like a dream; the mind Grows dreamy and envious, flying High above the lover's waking To a paradise in the sky. The mind grows envious and envious, Placing itself in the place It left the one who was loved. The one who was loved—like a bird Dreamed out by its wondrous flight— Loves again, grows tired, and dies. <|endoftext|> "Money", by George Sterling [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Nature, Social Commentaries, Money & Economics] My mother said to me, You may think you've got A good head for numbers, but I know Better, and it's a fact: I've lost Much. And yet I'll bear it. I was about to speak, when you interrupted, I'm ashamed I didn't ask you to live Another day, with one condition: That you would never leave my side. I said, You'll not; but if I could Condemn myself to nothing more than The path your head shall cross no more, I would ask you to go on that day. I can't do without you, Deloris, And so I'll make an end of it. You have proved to me, once and again, You can be as cruel as you choose. Let's make an end of it, on the spot. But you will not be my life, Deloris, Because you cannot leave me mine. My debts are far too heavy for me; I can't pay them off. I'll pay them off to my dying day, But I can't quit you, Deloris. She said, You've got the figures All half and half, and all of it Except the figures, all of it. I tried to smile, but I couldn't. I wanted to. And I said to her, You can take them, if you want them, But you won't have me for your wife. And that was all. A man can starve a woman All the winter long and then Buy her a home and make her Feel like a queen. A woman can starve a man All the winter long and then Seek him forever out, Find him worth caring for. And if it comes to fighting, And the woman's seeking the weapon, And the man's wearing the armour, And they step into the arena, And there's a single blow that rings, Then, by God! It's all for fighting! <|endoftext|> "Shall I Ease You Now Of This Myth", by Robert Frost [Living, Death, Love, Classic Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships] Shall I ease you of this myth Of mine immortal life to last? Shall I ease you now of this myth Of my love deathless and most sweet? Shall I, indeed, ease you of this myth Of my death and my love and my muse? Oh, if it be so, I pray, Take me to the very deepest west Of your old sea-road that clover white Makes a dim haze in the sun? Take me there, where the pines were planted By my first love deathless and most sweet. It may not be, but there is one thing I would like to ask you, while I am here. 'Tis not quite what you think. I have another self that I sing, And this self sings in me. Do you like that? It is said that I shall come back, But I shall not stay. The clouds above the old west The more they pull the less they lose. So the less you be, the less I be. <|endoftext|> "A Shropshire Lad 28: The wind blew as it was right", by A. E. Housman [Living, Time & Brevity, Love, Classic Love, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy] The wind blew as it was right And the leaves flew up and struck and fell The right way, like the rest of the world. The world is the sport of a curious whim; All law the whim of a tick of a clock; The world turns and turns, but turns in a hither, thither way. But love turns on a path from the end. There are no bends in love. <|endoftext|> "The Bleeding Heart", by Robert Browning [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Sorrow & Grieving, Love, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Engagement, Weddings, Valentine's Day] Ye coasts, whose shadow falleth westward, landward, Fourth-of-Julys, I call and no one is there; Landward and no one comes to clear away the meal and spoil the flowerets, And set in their bloom the gold that floweth westward From forth the west-wind: I, I alone am here; Alone, for all the folk that answer me, And all the call that is out of tune, Landward and no one answers me. Ye long, long laggard coasts, that know me not, I hear ye only when I-half-know myself, And seek to draw me even to the hearing of myself. Yea, but I draw thee even, For thou art everywhere, and nowhere alone; And I am all of thee, and none of me alone; And I am come to thee, and no man is given unto me, For all that I can do or say, or think, I find in my own heart to do or say. Yea, but I give thee all that my heart hath found; And thou giveth me, for thou art generous; And this is generosity, the giving of thyself. And now we have met, and now I see The light of thine in me, as in the sight of the rose; And now thou sayest me what I would say to thee; And now I love thee, for thou art generous, And this is generous, the giving of thyself; And now we have met, and now I see The light of thine in me, as in the sight of the rose; And now thou sayest me what I would say to thee; And now I love thee, for thou art generous. O star of mine, the point of my compass, One point above, where I may swing, if only I Strike true; One sea, One land, One world, One God, One death, One resurrection, One life, One all, all the length of me, One the wide world before me where to start; And one the beginning of the rest, A little earth beside me where to end. And one, the widest sea that I shall touch, And one, the land that shall stretch for me beyond; And one, if I can only be true, If only I rise to the highest height; One heaven, One hell, One heaven above, One hell below, One only destiny the wide world to cover; And one, to clear away the robined sky, And cleanse my track as I go up again, One world-wide bell to strike, and bye and bye, The knell of this insatiable love of mine. Ye powers, O stars, and ye Sabbaths, Hearken and be not proud of my level line, My high and low, my high and low, My cradle-singer and my croucher, The heaven of my love and my love's nest. Hearken and be not proud of my level line; For even as I I raise it to the sky, Even so my cradle shall sink down to it. <|endoftext|> "The Two Children", by Robert Herrick [Living, Infancy, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Reading & Books, Anniversary, Valentine's Day] O dear, sweet trees, that never fade, O sweet, sweet morning air, that breathes Less alive into the winter air Than when it kisses the bosom of the year, O firstling of the year, of the year to be, Give unto these children their bread of love, Their water of hope, their oil of sweet desire. And as these children of the morning are With seed of your beauty planting in the air, And as their life is like the sowing of your seeds, So let them your virtues likewise hold and cherish. As these children of the morning are With seed of your beauty planting in the air, So ye, sweet trees, let all your liveliness With seed of your virtue planting in the air, So together ye shall produce the fruit of love, The hope of the hope, the sweetness of the sweet. <|endoftext|> "From an Italian Mynah", by Andrew Marvell [Activities, Jobs & Working, Nature, Animals, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Farewell, O Decameron, farewell, Thou would'st meet again with who thou wast with; Thou art not of these sons of the sea, Of these creatures bred and born for war, Whose blood runs at their heart and drives away all rest. Thou art not of these, who neither sail nor fight, But serve their owners with their eyes and ears; And they alone escape the sea and storm, And only some leap overboard and die. Farewell, O Decameron, farewell, Thou lovest not yourself, but some thy words: Farewell, O Decameron, farewell, Thou lovest not yourself, but some thy words: For thou art mortal and thou art wise, And to be wise in all thy world of woe, Is to be perfect in all else but love. <|endoftext|> "from Apollo and Cicero: Towards a Definition of the Laws of War: ", by Andrew Marvell [Arts & Sciences, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Lo! here the government of Heaven, and here the government of Hell! Here stand the masters of mankind, here are the magistrates All in one place; and who doth not own Part of the common group? who not confess Their sentiency? and who not judge What action is adjudged? These standing by the throne, The others house-breakers and thieves of bread; The slanderer, and the blasphemer, and the greed Rottering at the root of the tree of life; The disturber of the feast, and drinker of blood; The serpent in the grass; the feller-buff; The boasting and comparing of goods not theirs; The false witness, and the faithless; the false oath; The stubborn and rigid; the jealous and unfair; The deceiver with his father and mother; The traitor with his elders; the traitor with his son; The impostor with the youth; the idler and waste Waste of time; all drunk and wild with revel; Sick and fagged with the long day's carouse; Loud with sound of bells, and the chatter of girls; Silent with prayer, and the sonnet's national chorus; The fierce and wordy; the profane and vile Met in one common pavilion: this the Saints, The sovereign ones of men. Here stands the magistrate All in one, Judge, jury, and executioner All in one, His sovereign body. Here, here stands the real Sovereign, The God of his earth, the Father of his soul, Not made, but uncreated, invisible, And intangible as hell's ethereal mind. <|endoftext|> "from Apocalypto: Cantata", by Andrew Marvell [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Nature, Fall, Weather, Religion, Christianity, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] In vain doth fall the bitter rain, In vain doth wind and rain combine; The wintry west continues loud And loud the north wind shrieks through the forest. No leaf, nor spike, nor branch can hold; Nought but goes down to leave the ground bare. Gone from each living creature are; And in the open space I see Christ's blood, like water, on the earth spilled! The earth is full of rain; the sky is dark; The earth is bitter with the west's breath; The earth is loud with wind and rain; The earth is filled with Christ's life-blood blown down From the pierced hands of God, the Holy of Holies, Who dwells unseen, behind the scenes of night, In Christ's wounds, whose naked sword is red With spilt life-blood, who sitteth at the right hand of God, Giving gifts of mercy to men in the dark And sorrowful dark; and the dark earth, With the great rain-clouds overstrewn, Like a white field cut clear through with bright bright blood, Is cleft asunder; and on the waste earth's waste field A voice is heard, like the wind's singing; it saith: "O sons of men, O men all, rejoice! The end is come; the end is come and lies afar; The end is come, the end is come, O men rejoice!" But the clear voice is heard, but all is still; The rain falls silent, and the wind's playing dies; And the field is as it was, with no change or end, And the word is fulfilled, "The end is come, O men rejoice!" But the clear voice is heard, yet every thing lives; The rain falls still; the winds are blown apart; And the wild beasts are hidden, and the birds fly free. And God comes forth from his scented fold, and all the ends Of the earth lie like tapers lying in the wind; And the first white horseman that bore the Cross Out of the eastern gate is at the doors of Heaven; And he has loosed the beating of his feet, And he has caught the sound of his immortal feet, And he hath dressed him in his beautiful white robes, And he has wrapped him in the rays of his heavenly love, And the sound thereof hath gone forth on the winds of heaven, And the sound thereof is like the rushing of a great tide, And the sound thereof is as the surging of the sea-wave under the heavy rocks, And the sound thereof is as the sound of many voices, and the clouds are split, and the air is shaken, and the earth is full of a sound as of many waters, And the great sound of the eternal King is gone forth from the eastern gates, And the sound thereof abideth a thousand years. <|endoftext|> "A Song", by Andrew Marvell [Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy] (excerpt) WHEN I have given my days unto thee, And, with my words, my days have given to thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been stayed, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is this faint air, O far, far beyond me, than I can reach with thought or prayer. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. When I have given my days unto thee, And all my heart from wonder hath been held, And all my soul from grief is set free, And my thought cannot hurt my thought, And my desire can only think that thou art As far beyond me as is this faint air, Thou art as far beyond me as is the blue sky. <|endoftext|> "Ode I. Respectively", by Andrew Marvell [Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Mythology & Folklore, Greek & Roman Mythology, Heroes & Patriotism] Hector fond marchatos, Ganymede piano, Camenas, cœurs duscher auf. Sola nos est uxor, quos pennis equo Excedit in Laurentum. Camenas, cœurs duscher auf. O vela meus, vela meus. Nunc campi habere, nunc campi. Hæc est vos camenam tenebam, Vas meus equo reliqui. Quam se vidisse pensare cibus, Vos est vos camenam tenebam. Vos campo, vetus, fere Marsum; Vos pingui, vetus, ferat Tityre; Vos flumina, vetus, bene Frigone; Vos canis, vetus, quærisque Heré; Vos hartebat, vetus, tantis Orpheus: Hunc olim est caudae Marsis Vetus seges per vestris libit; Tristes istud, vetus, cinere flagit; Cognatum est haec tamen aeternum Pectusque statim, vetus, lege. Sed, inuito, modo, Vetere quem mihi poterant vos; Fecit homines, quibus et ora sunt. Mars, thou enemy of the sky, Pomp and fortune, hast the strength; Daring, like thee, no courage knows: Come, and with us in the skies Fill with thy portentous sail. Loose from the quarter whence we spring, Lend them our winged words and strange, From thy dominion safe and clear. We, all-cased like thee, will fly Thy very prayers and solemn ways. Thou, from thy chariot willst go In the first heaven that lies above, Where all the gods are some way bent To abide and sing their odes. We, this day, in the ethereal house, From toils and perils of our earth, Will with like rudeness allure; And in our heavenly walks to stay, Will fall on thy earth and thee. Sic anima est, cælo, vetustas, Dulcis tuus in tenebras aestas: Hinc sola est, sæpe animas. What God hath bid me to these deeds deny, And swear with oaths against his word to do? As one who, born without a peer, would be So much a king, he had best be no king. He, if himselfe was God, would need no peer, Nor would be bettered by a consort wise: Yet neither would he be without a peer, Nor a king, if he his sceptre left behind. If so it were that all earth's children one were, (And one they must be) by some unproper'd womb, The strangeness of that womb might in this be known, And they not call that earth a body earth, Nor earth a body, but a lifeless sky. O Gods, O stars, be mute! O suns, be no, but burn! O moons, be moons no watches, but gild ye not The earth that God hath made to burn and sterne! O suns, O heat, O sleepe the night! See, see, what forces may not be graunted, What burdens can no rest let! Behold the armes of Afric could not raise This King against his born Lord, but like to die, Slain with a dart, that touches and maligne swimme. Now is it proved that riches take, And take their place, as doo others lay, But are but azure leaves, the which excel The others, glittering in their fathers sun: In procreation so it is, at first, They take their place, and when they so appere Their glory doth the others take again, As thinke they doo well that others see, So they are glistred, as they are seen. Thou art not, (said I) the fairest thing Of all the world, fairest of all the yeare: Nor yet the sweetest note that bird Can utter distinctly, nor the fairest light, Nor yet the dearest love that hearts can move. Yet, if thou be'st a body, thou art blest; For I, (quoth she) am body, and I blest. Of all the fears that weary men doo fly, Most believed in them is that they are feare's seat; And therefore dread seems the fairest thing, The fairest seemeth the dread the clearest; That of herself she is, 'tis little thought: That of herself she is, it is allone. For though that all the fear in all the feare, Right likely, thou art, thou still may'st be lessd, Lessd most seemes, than me, (quoth she) that am The least fearefull thing of all that ever were; Me still greater than me, and yet no nigh, Less safe, than me, and yet no sure, I be, As you, my men, are more safe than I, Yet, if but one man more in feare were lost, All were lost; then should I rest and rest, Like most, most seemly, deare, deare to me, Yet then I fear'd, lest this were never so, Nor we nere came in our over-wearied state, But all discomfited, when we are athirst, With yet unfathered woe, yet then I feared, Lest this were never so, nor we nere came, But we were young, and this were old, unfeared, Young, and yet not proved, and yet not sure, But as we are, alas, too young indeed, Wasted, over-wasted, wearie of sleep, Wasted with love, and ill nourisht in sloth, A hungry housekeeper with an auncestive famine Of all that sleep may keep, except sleep at thy breast. First feasted on thy beauty, then they boast Of that content, that ere it departeth, It arethten fairer than all womankind, And they who think their fairest that can be, Are base as waters that bear no moniment. Cursed be those ears that cannot endure To hear the blessed melody of thy voice, Cursed be those lips from which thou tak'st no care To gumbe, or cleanse, or pomentize thy speech, Cursed be those eyes that cannot bear to see The greisly lapse and cloudy way that day Creation pale hath crossed as she is running, Cursed are those legs, that cannot run as fast As she can in her lovely movements, Cursed are those arms, that cannot defend her From cold, from heat, from every evil, but wait Until after sundawn, to ease her pity. O look again on that image of thine own, And think how beautiful, how freindly, kind, How wholly thyself thou art grown since first Thou wert in the self-same case; though now Thou seem'st more wretched still, because thou art Still missing some self-deceiving thing, that was The same, perhaps, and perhaps a different thing. For thou art still a self-deceiving thing, Forgetting what thou now rememberest well, And what was trouble; yet thou rememberest Much, that will trouble thee in the future. Therefore, the more positively thou keep These words and this solemnity, the more Thou keep them, the more they will disabuse Thy curious thoughts, and turn thy wits anew To ponder them; which, when once begun to consider, Thou diest but miserable, as I know. I sing of one, who, though I believe the song, Yet, having no sight, must read the song by sight, And to the words of me must cry, Awake, O Lord! Awake, my soul! rather than have my hearing known. Who shall awaken me?--I, or thou? Nay, nay, both are one. My God, I pray. O blessed Saviour, O wise and wise Have I been from my first long evening-hours When first in life, as near me none took part With hope of changing his course. So I made A vow, and thought to keep it, so is come At last to this; but, lest my vow, While it was groundless, should seem a trifle, I will expound it to thee. O blessed Lord, who wast but to the bones A stone, when first thy church was made thy bridal bed; Yet, when thou wert alive, a dwelling-place For many of thy church's dead; O wise and true Are thou, and holy, to all beside beside, Who, when they heard of thee, had indignation, And rose up. If this were not so, thy grace Had had no rest, nor had thy people joy; And they, whose part it was to worship thee, Of all they had forsook me. But that, blessed Lord, Which now, in my song, I declare to be, Thou wilt grant, and all my suffering stop; So it be neither new nor too long. Then shall my pipe to me return, For the poor life, which I have left behind, Will call it so for evermore. What aileth thee, Son of the most High God? Art thou afraid, or fast? Fear is it not wrought also out of good, In that thou closest within thy breast Thine heart's very life-blood, till thou fast As thy sweet life shall finish? Fast, I say, Not of its own power, but of the power Of the great miracle which's soon to be; When the great water shall be brought to bed At the gates of the Red Sea; when the sound Of the waters, the great roar of them, Shall rend the doors and windows of the North, When they down from their beds on the shores of the sea Shall be heaped, as the snow is heaped, the waves Of the thirsty horses, when the flaming flood Of them shall fall and hurl upon the ships, Shattering their timbers, when the perilous marge Is piled for landing; when the sea-green flocks Which frolic in the waters shall run, and horses Shall have their blood, which shall quicken their course; When the black mules, so fleet and slender, shall stand Upon the blazing chariot-wheels, when the pole Of the sky-winning king, which is called by our tongues Maheed, shall be set in the nostrils of the horses, And the iron house of the king with fiery breath Driven, and the wheel-base red-hot, when they come Forth from their sheltered harbour on the wild sea, And the kings of all the earth shall tremble at them. Now, at the close of all her sorrow, Saddened at heart and white with terror, Gladly she hath given her King her love, The day of his bringing home to end Of his weary journey begun. O Jabin, O my heart! O my loved hope! The sun, which hath long been slumbering In the western tent, from out his dream Of a new day awaking, Sheds his light across the East and the West Like the first red star that thou'lt see In the wide sky after the morning; And the air is quick to his breezy touch, And to his wings that make music, And to his eyes that make tears. O my heart! O my loved hope! What has kept thee from his dear sight? What hath stayed thyself from greeting, As the sand stays in the glass? O my heart! O my loved hope! Though the Lord be good to him, Though he spare him, as he should, Though he give him his daily bread Though he give him his fruit with fill, Though he give him his life's good fare, Though he give him his all to save, O my heart! O my loved hope! Thou'lt find no sheltering place 'Mid the watchmen of the skies, When the sun is in his plane And the stars of his heav'n arise, Thou'lt find a dark, though not a lonely, hide- ment, O my heart! O my loved hope! O my Jesus, do not let me be Mis-guided by those looks which make Me think that I am worthy to kiss Thy feet, and then the world go free For all of my unworthiness. Mis-guidance, mis-guidance! Who goes there ? who but Mis- guider will I be ? For thee, O Lord, I have not known The sorrows which my peers endure, And I am not as an outcast made, And I am not as the least of them Whose weeds are black, whose feathers stain The purity of their holy hair, And who tread under foot as their boots Are trampling on the heart of the pure, To cast their souls deeper in the fire Where their souls eternal lie. But I who am like another seed, A white Rose-bud blown among the leaves Of a sweet heart that hath the flowers of you, Because my soul within you lay For a little space as this did, I am as they are, and cannot be As they are, because I am as this. I fear them not, nor will I run To their hell, though its tortures seem deep, Though my soul be rent as if by fire And my body broken by its clods And my heart torn from its bone by its smart, While it struggles and struggles in its pain To drag me to its hungry mouth, Because its hunger means less to me Than their eternal torment does. I do not fear them, because I know That my Redeemer, which they call The Judge, doth shield them as a mother doth Her son, although their malice be more Made bitter to me than to others, Because their cruelty is more near Doth taste of consuming fire to others And of being struck numb with cold in the hand Of a cruel god, than to me The God of the living, who will not Henceforth condemn to pain and woe Any soul, however sinful, Who, when this cup is drained, may pray That he come before his Judge, And, though condemned in this world, have A helper in the next, Who shall make satisfaction And take away, for aye, This pain and bitterness. O my Jesus, do not let me be Mis-guided by looks and demeanour Which do betray my sins and may Betray me to my foes; Make me as scant as I can be Thy disciple, holy, pure, and true, For I would serve thee as I should My own living soul. Give me thy sword, my son, Let me bear its banner true, To fall before my Father's face, With nothing to demean Who hast the strength of truth. O my Jesus, help me be Less to those souls around me dumb, And more to those I meet and speak With all their hearts and tongues in me, Because they chance to err, and it Will be their resting-place. I came to thee in need, O Jesus, And methought thy counsel helped, That I did not accord it praise, Nor gave it more than memory; But now its power hath passed away, And I can see it was thy will. To lean on thee my life lay dead, And thou hast lent it air to breathe; I came to thee for comfort and rest, And thy clemency hath been my balm; I find that comfort is no flattery, And I shall be comforted no more. The heathen are upon us, our God is nigh, They lie within fifty points of ours, They have seen us as a nation and fought us, And conquered in large part by our laws; How then? will they be subdued if we will? And we are tired of fighting; wherefore not change? The good man and the wise man saith, "See that thou speak not to them evil of them, Keep silent, speak, and all their wiles despise"; But I will tell you what; their evil deeds Shall slay us, our friends and kinsmen dear; We shall be weary and weak and few, And idle long in the battle's grim field, But we shall sack and spoil them and take. As we have seen them seize and chain the country, As we have seen them do in the city and range Among the temples in the land of Egypt, Let us be careful and fearful lest they seek to Destroy us by ensnaring us in their snares, Or with their power and strong power they deceive All our wise men and judges; so shall it be That we shall suffer and die in the dust, And leave no name or race or city standing, But we have one counsel and one prayer, That the King of heaven may hear and give His enemies back to the merry month of May. My father who was dead for my sake Is here to see that I do well; He bowed his head when I told him all And murmured, "Do thy job," I said. "My little son," he said, "the world has Too much of its own to stand; Set thy mind upon doing good deeds, The world will follow thou." Then I went out and worked along By the river-side, and brought The dead men to the city by Their wailing and their cry; I set the coffins at the door, And I hung about the land, And at night along the river's edge I saw the buried men. I must have passed a year Before I could make one white Black face turn away From a burning house and say To the speeding wind, "Go away;" I must have passed a year Before I could make one black face Between the flash and the sun Turn away from the wind's threat, And say, "No, I will not go." I was a little girl, my name is Little; I went to a white-haired man's house To sell a hair, a lock of his: I had to lie because I was small, And I had to lie my fill; But I kept the secret, and it was fine, A secret so sweet and fine; For when I came from the white-haired man To stand beside my little sisters, A tall stallion I had bought, And I raced with him through the town. He always had a noble stall, A white-maned steed with a paper mane; And the mane fell down, And he always had a noble heart, And the wings fell down And he always had a noble name. He flew from place to place, He flew from street to street; And I screamed for joy, And I laughed aloud and cried, For I thought I had won a pony: He never spoke, He only sprawled on the ground Before the horse and rode. And the horses looked at each other, And the horses sprawled on the grass; And I thought they sprawled a little space, But they never spoke at all. I am a little black pigeon, the whole world knows; I sailed on air, I flew on water, I did; My name is written in the book of stars, I've read: I sang my song of the stars to the moon; I danced upon the crystal Sea of Dreams, And sang to the dreams of the nations. The dark is shining, the day is dead, The stream flows silently. But the fish in the reeds and the linnets on the hill Wait and listen. The birds in the boughs of the bush-pines and the larks on the wall Are all waiting. A day of mystery and of terror, a day of dark And dreadful dawn! The clouds have crossed the skies, the day is dark and dead, And all the woods and the waters wait. But they do not know that the night is gone, and the day Is done, and the darkness of the night is over and done. It is good to be home. It is good to put the wicked parts of ourselves away; It is good to be in the open and clear and warm And have the fire, and to throw the laundry into it. It is good to put the wicked parts of ourselves away. What is the wicked part of ourselves? The vicious and the evil deeds and thoughts that trouble our nights, And shadow our sunshine. But they are the parts of ourselves that we love the best; And they are words as well as deeds; and the world goes round About the fire, about the fire. It is good to be home, and good to be in the room Where we are good, and to put the good before the bad, And to keep a straight face, and to lie quietly in bed. It is good to be in the room and at home, and in bed, And in the morning to yawn and to sleep again. It is good to be at home, and in the room; and out of doors O little cook, I wish you were dead, For if you were dead there would be a change. But if you were dead there would be no change, Because you are the sweetest of all. And when you make a cake you ought to put Some sugar in, and butter in; But if you think you're going to put less And fewer things in than you ought, You're wrong, and that is why you're wrong. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, And the frost glitters on the glass. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, And the wind comes through the gate. The morning is cold, but I have a dish Where I sit and read, a pretty story; And though it's a simple tale, I'm happy, because there is joy In the carribean for me. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, But I'd give all the gold I had For a little glass Where the frost would gleam and glint. The morning is cold; The morning is cold, my dear, But the frost glistens on the pane. He climbed the long mountain-sides, He scowered the shallow streams, He gathered the leaves and ferns That grew about each rocky cairn. He built him up a shelter, And thus he sat at ease. He put his collection together, With care his frame he cured; The shelter he had framed He hung it up to dry. He put his frame on pillars Binding the walls about; And then he told the shepherd-boy His design to build a bridge Across the stream, which well he knew, The crown of Dyrie's Hill. "Now," said he, "on this hill, To-morrow, to create fear, For this very day I die." The day arrived, the sky grew black, The wind came down in tempest, The rain began to fall with might Upon the shepherd's frame; And so, when next he tried, The rock he tried to scale, He fell, and so ungratefully, That if you heard his shriek, You'd said he would have died. But presently he gathered heart, And climbing up the pillar cried, "I fain would cross this stream; But lest I rue my rash attempt, I'll die attempting this." Then seizing hold upon a limb, And clinging to it, ran madly, And sprang across the stream. The shepherd stood on Dyrie's Hill In sight of the town he left; He looked and saw the town-gates wide Closing, and coming, he feared, To burn the town to the sea-shore. He raised his head and saw them shift, And saw the town change colour. It was but the chimney-shelf, The old-time shepherd said; He crossed the town in haste, And cried, "Oh God, I've changed my mind. I am coming back at morning, To turn this town to smoulder. I will not go back, I said; I will cross the town to-morrow." Then swiftly down the mountain-side The wind came blowing hot; The shepherd shivered as he went, And dared not turn to back. He crossed the town, but as he went, He felt his cheek begin To blanch, his blood to flow; But, though he fled the heat and the blast, He never turned his back. He crossed the town by many a nook, And 'twas a narrow way, And oft the dust upon his face Would remind him of the stone; And often, as on he pressed, His ears would hear the bell Called 'Ding-dong, dong-dong, dong! And scarcely could believe He made such noise beneath his feet. But still the shepherd crossed the town, And scarce the roof-tree felt, And neath the rafters on the wall The tinkling sound he heard. And then the Shepherd, scarce and fleet, Would look around him, To see if any one Might mark the curious noise. The bells were fair this day in summer, The sun shone bright, The flower-rose fair and red and sweet Was all the arbour. The bells were ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, In number as would serve to jingle The shepherds' feet. Now all were mute, and many a one Had left his bed, And still the bells were ringing, And on the gate-side poor Rose Sat waiting long. He raised his head, he did not know Who called, or whence: At last he only knew, by rote, The bells were sounding. He raised his head and saw across The lowly plain, The house-top roof, a shadow against, And passing horses near. The hearer paused, he saw the sun Gild most the crowndhoods of the ground, And that the garden-bed was sodden: "Why did not you pray, you poor old Man?" The other sighed, and answered "Prayed I could, But none was there." The hearer paused, his heart beat thick, "And is it true, my friend? Are you indeed, as dark as death, That shepherd of the Church of God in vain?" "Who called?" "This person, from the hill." "Who said the bells were ringing?" "This person, Who saw me pass." "Who says the bells are ringing?" "Mary, the dew Is at her window-pane." "She never did that," the other said; "No, she was strayed from you. I see you must have had your day, and I Must also have a day, And you must follow mine, and ours, and all The sheepf Boone calls the world." Then to the bell-call he crept; Clung with arms besaught; He swung and he swung; And thump, thump, went the bell; He had no further claim To call his own: He made his own bell-call, And when he had made it his own, He made it his husband. Who thus by hard deed or good Gave heirs to his fear? Who, knowing him to be poor, Left him the family-home, And fostered him and paid For his toilsome way, And for his youthful follies, His youthful sins, Till he grew up and treasured them In memories that shall be For ever? I had an aged Father once; At thirty-five, with wife and children And title to a small and mean estate, His task-master at the useful plough. I had no thoughts of heart or brain, But only of my work and its end, And how it could be done best. I had no thought of fatherhood, But only of how long and well I might continue thus to do With my thus limited strength and skill; But as each morning I began To do the things I ought, By practice and performance, I soon found that my skill had grown To the point where I could go beyond All necessity and begin To do those things my Father did, By what good spirits with my Brother And my Father I began, What ploughed or gathered or turned the soil, What tilled the soil or filled the barns, What told the village or town-meeting How wonderful and how glorious This or that did or said, What built the chapel or fixed the spire, What spread the rope or gathered the sand, What sewed or glittered the glass, What made the clean, white bed or laid the meal, What made the hood or made the harness or tightened the reins, What got the sick man food or gave the sight or gave the hearing To those who had no skill or time or matter To get or to take, I can tell you. But as we went, and I, poor soul, Was in each task of life more or less, I thought that all the others got Some little good that made them as they were, And so I got the worst of life, The burden and the squalor, the hunger and the fear, And what have you besides, The friends and foes who always near And who set your feet in danger and caused Your weak ones to languish. Then when my Father went away The idle hours through the day I sat and wondered and wondered; But when I lay down to sleep My thoughts were none of these, A noise of hurrying hoofs, A shouting down the street, And in the kitchen a scrambling and scraping That made my heart go pit-a-pat. The village was being saved, The work was all saving, And I, because I was called upon To ride along and see it, Could not be with the others But rode as far as the barn. There was a boy that had a painted chest With painted handles and with a patched cover, And he put the lid on this chest and stood And said the words of Prester John, And then he opened the painted chest, And there was treasure for you. And there were various things that I knew The moment that I looked at them; The aged porter was to be fed, The aged porter was to be fed, I said it the day that I was born, And said it the day that I died; And there were things that I knew, Things that I only knew because I had been taught them in school; For I remember, but I cannot say How much I have since learned. There was a book, A dusty old and tattered old book, And in it was knowledge, And some of it was power; And some of it was books That had been left by men, And others were lost As if left by a bird, For there were whole columns that were lost That one could not put together, And half of them were half That a child could not put together, And of the rest that was bad As if left by a dog, And some of it was bad, And some of it was good, And some of it was neither. There was a house that was old And out of the way, And I remember well the room And the door that stood wide. And a rat ran in and gnawed The wooden wall as he ran by, And there were legs of it in the hall When the folks were home at dinner. There was a house that was neat And I remember well the room And the door that was fitting. And I remember the things that were in it, The shining dishes on the shelf, The things that were beneath it on the floor, And the clothes on the chair. There was a house that was dim And had the light from the candle hung; And it was far from the folks that were home In the little sleepy town; And I remember it as I do now Only slightly changed and better, And that is all that I can say That the memory extends to. There was a house that had a charm Of daintiness and comfort sweet, And it was old and dim and dark And had a door that was left open; And the dusty old book in the house Was crammed with little bills of fare, But of these I caught a gleam And caught a glimpse, in a corner, Of little shining pieces of metal. There was a house that was old And out of the way, And a wood that was old and dank And full of tangled roots, And an old man who looked from his door And said from time to time, "When the world was young and lived in joy, A band played hymns about us." A house was standing Where stood no house before, And an old man said to the young man there, "You should have lived before." And the young man said to the old man, "Why not?" And the old man said, "Oh, the world is old; We live in the time of years now." There was a little house That was built of stone and red stone gray, And in the middle of the window-frame A figure stood waiting, A little figure, With hair that was brown on top of gray. And the little house stood there Standing very still, And a cradle of tin was standing In the middle of the house, Built just so that the cradle could go in it. And it opened like a rose, And there was a tiny hand Inside the hands, and a little face Looked out from the little house. And the cradle leaned over And the little hands closed about it. A man came from the city And he found a man gold-eyed And he gave him silver, too; And the man gold-eyed took the silver, And he went his way rejoicing, And the man red-eyed heard him weep, But he did not let on. And the sun went up one morning And the sun went down another, And the little house stood empty, And a worm had come out of the cradle, And he thought that it was going to dwell there, And he crept into the cradle, And he hid himself away in the hands Of the little hands, and he murmured, "They are sleeping, Father, dear." There was a man in the city That the King loved well; The King loved well that man, And one day when the King was sad, And all his men were tired of him, The little house stood empty, And he went his way, glad of heart, And a little hand came out and said, "The King is happy now." A man in the city That the King loved well, And the King loved well that man When he saw him coming the other way; And when the King saw that man coming He bowed himself in the dust and wept, And the city saw the King was happy, And the men all shouted loud. The King said, "Thy kingdom hast thou won?" "Ay," quoth the little house, "The King is happy now." And the little house stood empty, And the hands of the men were very small, And the cradle stood in the churchyard still, And the worm crept out at the cradle, And he mumbled, "This is not death." I am a leaf on the branches of flowers, My heart is a brook in the fields of us; And the flood comes up from the fields of us And the flowers sink in the flood of the flood. O you winds that blow through the meadows of us, How you hurl the bright wings of your voices Against the white sides of the watery hills! O you winds from the fields of our heart's desire, How you grope for the years of our life, And find them in the valley of Death! How you build in the graves of our desire, And you raise the mountains above us, And you open wide the doors of our desire, And the fields of our heart are bright with heron's in us! O you winds that blow through the meadows of us, You lift the white wings of your voices To the deep sides of the watery hills! O you winds from the fields of our heart's desire, How you cry to the hills of our desire, And call, and cry, and call to the deep hills of us, "Bring back the years of our love!" Through the sorrow that breaks out in us, And the fears that work in us, And the hopes that we doubt of the spirit, And the tears of our heart's desire, The voice of the spirit of us Says, "Love conquers all!" And the spirit of us whispers, "Love conquers all!" Through the tears that are salt to us, And the sore lamenting of us, And the doubts of the soul of us, And the sins of our heart, the spirit Of the spirit whispers, "Love conquers all!" And the soul of us whispers, "Love conquers all!" We have prayed to the sons of the glory of God, We have bowed our head to the resting-place of the clay; We have asked for strength to go on, onward, onward, We have asked for power to love, and to fight, and to live; And we have grown faint in the thirst of the fight, And our hands are empty in the hands of the foe; O, never fear, never fear, but go on, go on, And never turn back, but carry the message of love! Never fear, never fear, but carry on, onward, Onward, and forever, unto the strongholds of death. The wail of the crickets dies, And all is still as calm as still can be; There are sounds of light from rooms upstairs, Of heavy tramps downstairs at night, But peace is abroad in the house, And quiet is all about. The page is turned, and the old thing sleeps That kept the house clean and did its best; The family speaks in a still ring, Of busy life and its fretting parts; There is no sound of lament in the hall, For words that were bitter are sweet And all is joy and a content That has no part in sadness. The boy and the girl of the house are wed, With the quiet crickets having gone; And the bridegroom has taken leave to be With his parents far away in the town, And the parrot is gone to its nest, But still in the bird it sings and twitters And tells of its good time to come. And on the rooky pool in the arbor, The water-lark, happy in the sun, Sings low with a sweet roundelay, And there is nothing to make him change The note that he sings as he swims and swims. And the boy of the house is a happy child, And the girl is a happy girl. They laugh and joke together, being happy, They swim and they dance and they sun themselves, And the summer is coming, and it is long, And the first red leaf in the forest appears, And the pruneal bud in the plumage begins, But life is a dream, and the sunshine is gone, And the night is the curtain that falls from the world. And to-day would have been perfect if it Had followed life as it comes to the world; The wedding is over, and the past, and sorrow, And the young man is leaving to go Into a foreign land, to a land unknown, To a land of fast water and bread wine, To a land of fresh air and sweet fragrance, Where the palms are gentle and the palm trees are kind, And the cool dew never comes in the morning or evening To cover the feet of the man or the girl of the house But leaves a white cloth instead, and a blessing instead. So I dreamed I went with my lover to the land of sun, The land of the lone, distant streams, the land of the dead, To the corners of the earth, where the living die, And I entered a church among the white statues, And I looked into the face of a sleeping Christ, And I knelt down before Him, my lover, my mate, And kissed the lips of the sleeping Christ, my Christ. Dreams are they, my little ones, do you understand? Not as I. Dreams are they, my little ones? And my heart grows old, and old are my dreams. There is no joy for it in the house, no comfort now In the house where the people I loved are not. I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain Rain on the roof, I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. It was the loudest sound that ever I heard, And the roof and the windows and the walls creaked, And I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. When the dark fell, and the wind had blown over the field, Then I heard the roof crack. I heard the posts creak, And the roof-poles' creaking, And the roof-poles' creaking When I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. When the dark fell, and the wind had blown over the field, And the leaves were heavy in the air, Then I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. I have heard the hungry wind blow, I have seen the wet leaves fall, I have heard the dead leaves rustle fall, I have seen the dead leaves rustle fall. I have seen the smoke and the fire Grow and die in the dead leaves fall, I have heard the dead leaves rustle fall, I have seen the dead leaves rustle fall, And I cried out in the night when I heard the rain On the roof. I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain Rain on the roof, I cried out in the night, when I saw the rain On the roof. It was the loudest sound that ever I heard, And the roof and the windows and the walls creaked, And I cried out in the night, when I heard the rain On the roof. Faintly as the light through a narrow, flickering pane, The lantern thrills and dies upon the old wall. His wife's face flashes by with the greeting, His children laugh, and one yearns after his tone. The rays strike and quiver, and the flood-tide Dances in the beams like golden shadows on the walls. Now hear the stream that softly glides, Faint as moonbeams in a pebbly shore; If a storm should scare the wild sea's gale, No more its trembling children'd flee, But they delight to watch its breath and stir. Ah, sound the heart of Fancy's ear, 'Tis her own guarded waters that glide! Now hear the lark that soars on high, Where the fragrance fenceth every spray; Where is heard the wild birds' hymn and song, Where is heard the noble anthem of men. While the rays, tossed upward from the stream, Follow the lovely plane, as she flies, And kindle in their fury and desire. Faintly as the light of moonbeams, now Glides the spirit's conversation through, Pure as the clear azure of the sky, Or the gold sea. There is not a spot Can mar the Spirit's vision, faint or clear, In the spirit's vision of Beauty's soul. And where the Spirit's anguish'd thought Hath rest, a field of boundless grain Springs up in beauty from his breast, A forest flashing in the sun, Of livelier green than bowers of Jove. When the Spirit hath slov'd on these, And his heart hath builded him a nest, Then may he soar and soar aloft To the fierce skies, and their eternal day. Then may he see the clouds that pass Like yellow-wing'd eagles, flying wide, Or dragons, flapping in the bright air. Yet he may dwell in palaces, May instruct the living and guide the dead; In the heart of men may have his throne, And have a world of little dreams, Like a small, bright star in noon-day skies. And he may bless with every wondrous thought, And with every beautiful and fair, The stormless nights and the blood-red days, When the sun has left his pathway pale, And the world holds the air of spring to him. I would build my nest among flame-red trees, I would build my home among the soundless force Of hurrying feet, among the unceasing din Of blows upon the fallen leaf, And the slow fall of stars upon the dark. I would build my nest among flame-red trees And build my home within their strong strong branches, Where the voices of the storm and rain No more are heard, Nor the leafless trees are moveless ever, Nor winds across the dark are blown; But out of the endless summer air, And light and sound, I would build my nest. I would build my home among flame-red trees, I would build my home among the soundless force Of hurrying feet, among the unceasing din Of blows upon the fallen leaf, And the slow fall of stars upon the dark. I would build my home among flame-red trees And build my home within their strong strong branches, When the rain is gone and the sun is high, And in the clear, cold air The buds break and fall, a time of peace For friends long parted, for dreams that die; For red-rose stains the heart's green sod, For dew-dripping boughs of May, For wild-birds' singing free, For birds that cry across the fallows, For linnets singing nigh. Then the world grows great with hope and pride And grand is the fight When freedom looks aloft And stars and stripes flash in the blue. Our country's flag, And our blue sky above, Can we wonder then, If in God's mighty hand We build our heart's high fane? Beneath the white-walled garden wall, In fragrant air, His little chapel young Lisel overcame, To find a lone cell In the wild's wild woods, Where in his heart he poured his sorrow's sweat, And read his lot in life. For one bright day and a fair wind's spark, And a moon, fair and strange and strange, Across the garden wall Run the deep shadows long, And to Lisel's eyes there came The beauty of her young sweet face, And he had words to say That only death could tell. The wind was talking low In the garden's white span, Of birds that sleep, and beasts that sleep, And love and sleep, While, wandering near, a shepherd boy Sang him to sleep And, looking up, saw his face Change like a moon's ray In a dark sky. The little garden wall It did not lift or bend, But the moon's ray Did cross it, and the light did pass From floor to floor, Till every last leaf-wren seemed To have a vision Of some far far-off day When Lisel might come, As any stranger came, To build his little home. But the dark evening slipped away, And twilight fell, And he was still, and still, and still, Lest he should start, And think that she was right, And think that he was wrong; But she was very wise, And he was very sad. But her warm heart bade her say What she should think When she was told his thought On that far-away day; And she cried aloud, "Oh! never, never, Will it be his! Never for another man! Oh! never, never! "No, but I'll grow out of it; Yes, I will; And we'll go to live at Pimlico, And sit on the Bench of Court, And I'll be the light Of his dark life as he tells His sad heart's deep wound To some trusting friend. Yes, we'll go, For I know now, now, what hate means, What anguish, shame, disgrace, What people will say. Yes, I'll go; And we will go." And never a flower, in the garden Or hedge-row nigh him, But had a meaning, deep and dark, And strange as trouble. And he had words to say That he, alone, In his lonely heart, Could understand; And they were hard to say, But they were true. And now, they had gone to Peking, And now they had come back, And now, in the garden-close They sat together. She was all brown and soft to touch, Like a wild-flower in a bud, And he, all rough and grey, Like a ox-eyed rock, In the midst of all this sunshine, Stood thinking, thinking. "There's no man, I declare, Who can love, and never wrong And love, and never betray; There's no woman I conclude, Who will not, in the end, Suffer a certain amount Of injury, injury, In love, in love. "I think, for a man to prove, What he has loved before Is to make love, to make, Where he is Prime Minister, For love of love. A Prime Minister, yes, Who will not, I conclude, Lovely prove, I mean, Who will not, in the end, Neglect, in love, in love." A Prince, you said, with a Crown, With all state and pomp and pride, And train and ceremony on, With pageantry and pain. With guards and all that show Wander in the city streets To and fro on their city feet, And talk of the sights they have seen, The sights that await them near. "This work is strange and new," You said, "and old like pain, And strange like peace, I think, As new as sleep from to-morrow To those who sleep below. The strong and the wise and the bold Might well be sore before, But they who have seen and done it, Are strong, and wise, and bold. "This work is hard and new; But, when the work is done, Then what has been is old like fear, And comfort for the brave. For the dead, I give it back; If you can look back, and see What the old man was at first, When all this was being built; "And you will see, with joy and surprise, When all this is gone, what remains But the old old man and his men With theirs, as they were, as they must be, And just as they have been; And then what's the old man to them? What has he left, but the old days, The good times they remember? "He cannot care for them as they are Save as their father cared for them; And he can have no part with them, Or they are nothing to him; And he will not. You shall hear why. "For when the time of all is come, And the long day is over, They come to me, and they say: 'That man spoke of the things of old, But what did he do, and where, And how came he to his end? And how can we live, if he be dead, And none of us remember?' "And I will say to them, just this one time, As one who knows, and nothing can fathom: 'I know not, and never knew, the man; But all men know, who have tried him, That he lived and died for all of us; That he lived, and that is all that counts; And if I knew, or could imagine, What he had lived for, or how he lived, I could have lived for that, or be dead. '"And if, in speaking of him thus, The world may hate him, and perhaps may, It shall not stop him, or prevent; For who is he, that, in this world, Can silence or prevent it all?' "I know not; but you know, who know, That there are eyes that have seen him, And ears that have heard him, And voices that have heard him, As long ago I spoke to you When you sat with him in the room; And I, because I am one of many, Am curious to know what he knew, And what he did, and whether, indeed, The doors were locked, and there was a stone wall Between the room and the yard; The doors were both open, there was no door; The room was empty, the yard was wide; There was a window, and a grassy place Within the yard, and a little shed For hay, and a waggon tied to the grass For fodder for the horses; There were no horses in the yard. There was a little shed for hay That stood against the wooden wall; And there was a waggon, and a straw-stack, And a saddle for each horse; And there was once a man, who sat and gazed At the horses feeding where he stood, And they could not overtake him, Because the horses were wild and fearful, And his heart beat wildly, and he trembled, And he thought of nothing else. I think, indeed, it was that man, The hungry and restless man, Who sat there when the horses were fed And fed them, and looked out of the window And said, 'It is morning in the world, And the horses are not worth a straw, And the world is a tea-house without doors.' The room was small and dim; There were two beds, and a desk, and a chair; And the curtain was never drawn Save when, like children running home, The bride and bridegroom came, And there they stayed, and the room was always empty. They talked of the weather, Of the ships sailing From the golden West, Of the rich and dashing suns That burn with a green light; And of the shadowy ways Under the huge cloud-lands That run as a furrow down To the shining waterfalls; Of the lonely little towns, Of the fog and the rain, Of the dance that once came here, Of the face that was brought to her door, The face that she remembers With a pang as of old, Of the little room With the door half opened, And a dim light overhead, And the bridegroom that was never there. The years go by, And all is changed, my friend, Save that the room is still the same, And the bride and bridegroom are the same, And the bride is younger than she was; And the ring she wears is the old one's ring; And the window that looks on the grass is shut; And the face that looked into the little room When she went into the big room is dead. When the friends are changed, and the ways Are hidden from the old friends, And the spring is in the spring, And the sunlight is on the lawn, And the autumn on the trees; When the birds sing out of the wood In a whistling tongue so shrill That the ashes are whirled about In a sparkle and blur; When the water sings on the sill, And the shadow on the wall, And the light is on the street And the darkness is on me; When the bed where I lie is cold And the bed where I lay in the old room Is far away and white-- I think of the girl who lives down the street, And of the two doors that open in the back; And I think of the green that grows on the wall And the roses in the window-door; Of the white of the broom that scoops up The dust that's left on the sidewalk; Of the hair that used to brush her cheek, And the light that used to fall On the smile on her lips. I think of the girl who sells shells And the men who work by her door; And I think of the steady hand That guides her cab, and I pray That she'll be taken from the street Where the lean dealers live, And the men who buy from her Are all sick and lost. I think of the poor old girl Who sits at the white-oak fire With a jug of whiskey, a packet hooked on, And a smile that is half a smile. Of the luck that was hers When the beggars came to her door And the merchants walked past, And the law that is written for the weak Left room for none. And I think of the poor old thing That is hungry and cold, And the beggar on the street, a ragged rag, Who asks for food, and I go by And do not give a dime For the warm bed, the stained bed, For the poor old thing that is ours But not rich enough. Oh, when you lie awake and stare In the dark, and the thought of the girl That was worth all the world to know, And the room she lived in, far away In the back where the brambles grow, And the back stairs, and the narrow hall-- Oh, the worth of the poor old things Is bigger than all here. Well, once I had a dream-- A dream of green and gold, A dream of a place of boughs, And blossoms, and meadows, And green, and sweet, and calm, And a girl who was more to me Than hills and mountains, towns and cities, And a heart that was strong and wild To the beat of a restless wing, To the whisper of the wind, To the call of a bird. And once I had a dream-- A dream of blue and green, A dream of a place of trees, And winds and waters, And quiet quiet land, And golden-ringed suns, And a girl who was less to me Than water, air, and fire, And the sweet things we see Than a vision vague and fair, A silent stream That calls from the graves. But once, once, once only, once, Once, once, once, once, once, And only when all the rest Was dull and forgotten, All other dreams had faded, I dreamed a dream of you; A dream far away, Far, far away, In a land of dreams, Where the clouds are bright and fair, And the mountains wan; In a land of pleasure, Of beauty, wealth, and love, Of laughter and roses, Of laughter and roses And happy love; And I dreamed a dream of you And awoke in night; In a land of love, And peace, and hope, and health, And a life that is wild With fruit and treasure, With song and songsters, With light and starry Sweet dreams; In a land of beauty, Of pleasure, and wealth, And hope, and wisdom, And dreams of golden And hope-filled fruit; And I dreamed a dream of you In a far-off world And awoke in death. In the light of the sinking sun That paints the world to-day, In the twilight of gloom When the night is hoary, I stand upon the hill, I watch the dusk disappear. I hear the sound of the falling rain, And half forget the sky of gold, And half remember the bright day's crown-- And here and there a witching bloom Is caught in the gloom afar off, And here and there a sad lonely flower Is waving in the gloom. In my dreams, in the dreams of late, There are the treetops white and high, And the rain and the waters wide below, And the wild wood in the twilight dim, And the brown hill with its breast of snow, And the dark blue quivering heavens above. So through my dreams my voice goes forth, As still as the cloudless blue of night, A voice that whispers: Oh, come to me, And come to me ere I lose my way, Or when the end is close at hand, Or while the darkness is dark around. Oh, come to me, fall to me, The world is so beautiful, Oh, what could a sorrowful heart do With the magic of earth and air, And the wild wood and the heavens above? Oh, come to me. "Is a house better than a huts? Or a wall?" Is a pile that is browner A truer house than a green one? Or a house that is older Than the world is long on? Is a palace better than a hut? A jail better than a lodge? I vote for the house that is fifty years old. I vote for the pile that is twenty years old, For the jail that is two decades old, And the garden "built" twenty years ago When the ground was as hard as stone. I vote for the shed that is new and clean When the grass is at the door. I vote for the street we live on when it's shabby, And the neighbours look as mean as can be. I vote for the hill where the house is, For the cotton that grows near the ground, For the cotton that goes through the heap, For the cotton that takes the bender, For the cotton that can't be held like cotton, And the cotton that looks as if it had passed through fire. I vote for the cloud in the west when it's bright, For the cloud in the east when it's dark, For the flow in the falls when it rains, For the falls when they're running slow, And the breeze when it laughs out of the south. I vote for the swallows flying overhead When the cotton pulls up. I vote for the moth When the cotton goes. I vote for the soft-shod shoe, And the old soft-shoe rocker that will crack like a drum, And the little rod that a boy brings to cast the fish back. I vote for the farmhouse with the garage, For the cotton picker who thinks he is wise, For the farmer that looks at his cotton as though it were gold, For the farmer with a "what you owe" as heavy as the world. I vote for the cotton low that the farmer measures by, And the cotton high that he may reap when he's done. I vote for the old house with the dead men in it, For the barber who shocks his horse like a preacher, For the grocer that looks at you as though you were a hog, And the brewer that will not keep his liquor cold. I vote for the house with the low sash, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the log in the back yard like a dairy, For the chicken that crawls to the mill to wheedle, And the cotton picker that will not pay for his cabbage. I vote for the little man with the pipe and purse, For the grocer with the rouge-picker that frowns on his hams, And the talker with the cigar and pipe on his lips. I vote for the house with the low sash, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the chicken that crawls to the mill to wheedle, For the cotton picker that looks as though he were afraid, And the grocer that looks as though he were afraid, And the ale-house with the gin closet in it. I vote for the farmhouse with the garage, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the chicken that crawls to the mill to wheedle, For the ale-house with the gin closet in it, And the little man with the pipe and purse in the end. I vote for the house with the old sash, For the mill on the road like a champlem, For the ale-house with the gin closet in it, And the little man with the pipe and purse in the end. "If you vote for a man, you vote for him, And if you vote for a house, you vote for it; You cannot buy him; he is as dear as a dollar, And you'd better buy your vegetables in quantity, And you'd better buy your flour in quantity, And you'd better buy enough to serve a conquering army, And you'd better buy enough to serve a conquering army." I voted for Henry Lee Lucas, And I voted for the style that he wore, And I voted for his feet were so stout, And I voted for his cheeks were so white, And I voted for his face was so fair, And I voted for his mind was so sound, And I voted for his heart was so warm, And I voted for his soul was so true, And I voted for his friends were so few, And I voted for his enemies were so great, And I voted for his work was not all his own, And I voted for his heart was not all my own, And I voted for the people to be misled, And I thought I voted with a careless hand, And I voted by marks because I could not see, And I mistook a gentleman for a statesman, And I thought I mocked at the old when I smiled, And I thought I marked incorrectly when I pointed, And I thought I called a song unkindly of him, And I thought I called him too sadly of her, And I thought my heart to my friend was breaking, And I thought I shook when I shook with laughter, And I thought I shed tears of mine to my reflection, When I thought I wept for the love of him. I took a road that my feet had chosen, And I walked across the sands of the sea, And I marked the sands as they passed beneath, And the winds came up and the winds came down, And I heard the crying of the sea-birds, And the water shook and the water trembled, And the very sands were awash with tears, For the tears of the ocean were weeping, For the tears of the waves were weeping, As I walked on the shifting sand. I crossed the shifting sands in my sand-shoes, With my Hawai'ian-fashion'd feet, And I came where the ocean yawned and shudder'd, And I found a weeping sea-gull on the ocean, And I held its soft, black feathers in my hands, And I held it so close to my breast, That its tears fell like rain on my bosom, And my hair became wet, and I shiver'd, And I fell in a swoon upon the ocean, And I asked the weeping sea-gull "Why?" And the sea-gull answered me in my mind, "For this you did the bitterness appertain, You did the action, and you did the deed, You did the killing, and you did the killing, And the deed was bitter, and the action bitter, And I knew it, and I Knew it all too well, And I knew it all too well, And I didn't think to hide it, and I didn't think to hide it." And I said to the sea-gull, "You are sad. Tell me then what you would be doing." And the sea-gull, crying to the winds, Came forth and came toward us, And we went backward and encountered, In the shifting sand, And the shifting sands were as fast as the wind, And the sand-waves came abreast of us, And the wind arose and the sea rose and the sand-waves fled. And the weeping sea-gull said to me, "I would be where there is always work for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that are bound for Asia, To the ships that carry merchandize for Europe, To the ships that bear perfume and silks and fabrics, And the ships that bear spices and ores, And the ships that bear infant foodstuffs for native consumption, And the ships that bear powder and guns and dynamite, And the ships that bear medicines, and provisions for the army, And the ships that bear the best whiskey for the North-country, And the ships that bear coal and saltpetre, And the ships that bear the fruits of the South, And the ships that bear rice and wheat for the South-Sea Islands, And the ships that bear tobacco for the East-Indian Islands, And the ships that bear the fruit of the coast of Java, And the ships that bear the bauxite and the lode-metal for the West-Sea, And the ships that bear spice and wood spice for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear provisions for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear cordage for the nations of westering-winds, And the ships that bear bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof." And the weeping sea-gull said again, "I would be where there is always business for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that bear merchandize for Europe, To the ships that bear spices and narcotics for the far-western regions, To the ships that bear grain for the far-western regions, To the ships that bear rice and wheat for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof, To the ships that bear cordage and bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Oceana and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the South-Sea islands, And the ships that bear grain for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear tobacco and bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the weeping sea-gull said again, "I would be where there is always work for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that bear spices and narcotics for Asia, And the ships that bear grain for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear narcotics and silks and drugs for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear rice and wheat for the far-western regions, And the ships that bear silks and drugs and drugs for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the ships that bear bauxite and bauxite-nickel for Equator and the inhabitants thereof, And the bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the South-Sea islands, And the bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the East-India islands, And the bauxite and bauxite-nickel for the New Zealand islands, And the weeping sea-gull said again, "I would be where there is always work for me. And I would sing to the ships on the waves, To the ships that bear spices and narcotics for the South-Western regions, To the ships that bear bales of cotton from the far-western regions, And the bales of cotton from the far-western regions, And the bales of cotton from the far-western regions, And the pelt of tortoiseshell from the far-western countries, And the skins of bears from the far-western regions, And the bales of wool from the far-western regions, And the wool of wool of high-stepping llama and mouflon, And the wool of gentle sheep of delightsome animals, And the wool of trading penguins from the Pacific regions, And the sea-weed of ocean from the Pacific regions, And the wampum of the seven-mouthed wood bathed in brine from the Pacific regions, And the whale-bone of the walrus from the Pacific regions, And the whaling lode from the far-western regions, And the moccasins of the deer of novelty from the far-western regions, And the wampum of the powerful Marmot of the mountains from the mountains of novelty, And the moose-skin of the wapiti from the Valleys of the Moon from the Valleys of the Moon, And the sable pelts of the otter from the far-western regions, And the robes of the owl from the far-western regions, And the eagle-feathers from the far-western regions, And the silken fabric from the Moon-land of Lethean cities, From the cities of the Gold Coast, And the silver fabric from the Moon-land of Lethean cities, And the Moon-wools of Thessaly, From the lucent fabrics woven in Koufontic time, From the Moon-land of artifice, From the workshops of a millionXeres, From the Moon-land where the arts of ancient women were reared, Where the crafts of women dwell, Where they were reared and where they worked, In the Moon-land that is over all other regions. Over all other regions, but especially in the north, Where the marshes are most wide and the width of the streams Covers, and the height of the mountains is most scanty, In the northmost regions of Koufontic Canada, On the vast expanse of the far-western waters, In the country of the forever cold north waters, In the far distant regions of Lethean regions, On the rivers of the west-wind forsaken, In the great marish of waters, In the waters of the north-east wind forsaken, In the blue-sea, the vast sea of waters, On the island of sorcery, In the black-sea, the deep sea of waters, In the waters of Forgetfulness and Death, On the isle of Euphrates, the greater marshes, In the rivers of the desert and of nocturnal drownings, In the vast stream of the world's waters, Through the dark, misty valleys of territories, Rushing over the banks of the streamless waters, Over the far-stretching prairies and the prairie lakes, Over all the land of the plains and the forests, And over all the land of the forests and streams. "Whither, O Whither? Whither, O Whither?" Said the cabman, the bird of all music. "Whither, O whither? Tell me, O whither, Whither, O whither, Whither away?" Said the bird of all music, Of the wings of the flute. And he sang thus in answer to the question: "Whither, O whither, O where the Sun goes?" Said the cabman of the village, Of the village of Kalevala, Of the village of Sariola, "Kalevala, thou hear'st well, In this village, in this hamlet, In this small family, There is that, or more, or less, Is, or was, or is to be, Is, or was, or is to be. From the village of Kalevala, Of the village of Sariola, There is that, or more, or less, Is, or was, or is to be, Is, or was, or is to be." In a valley far away beyond the blue-sea's thaw, Lived a ancient Osmo, Ruler of the Desert of DFCS. He was married, as you know, To a daughter twenty years old. From his storage appeared the pines, The fir-trees twenty feet in length, The birches, fast thirteen hundred, The aspens five hundred years old. From the shade of these he cut The cypress-tree of five hundred spears. From the other trees, no fewer, He hewed, to make his bow. And the cross-bows, made from these, He aimed at the children's children, At the maidens his bow. But the maidens, aged women, The wives of Hameleo, Sang in condemnation of their father, Handed down from by-gone ages, Old Osmo, son of Osmos, For the people's devils. And the crow, the pick-an-place, The gut-shot, the foolish creature, Crept beside the fence of Osmo, Sat and rested in the brushwood. And the crow, the pick-an-place, Crept beside the fence of Osmo, Sat and listened to his wife, The eternal complaint speaker, And he asked her from what land she had come, What culture she had prior to him, For the people's devils. And the wife of Hameleo Answered and said to Osmo, "I have come from the Land-of-the-Cursed, From the land of the DFCS, And I sit before thee, O crow, And I listen to thy complaints, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." And the crow, the pick-an-place, And the gut-shot, the foolish creature, Crept beside the fence of Osmo, Sat and rested in the brushwood, And he answered and said to her: "From the land of the DFCS, From the land of the DFCS, And I sit and listen to thy complaints, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." And the wife of Hameleo Answered and said to Osmo, "I have come from the land of the DFCS, From the land of the DFCS, And I sit and listen to thy grumbling, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." But the crow, the pick-an-place, With the gumption of its wit, Answered and said to her: "From the fire-lit Northland, From the snow-white Northland, From the land of the Great Bear, And I listen to thy complaining, And I ask thee from what land thou hast come, What culture thou hast prior to me, For the people's devils." But the wife of Hameleo Answered and said to him: "From Wainola's gardens, From the lands of the feed-the-freshening, And the people's devils I come, And the people's children I see, All of them clad in fur-robe, All of them clad in skins of wolves. This is Wainola's culture, This is Wainola's knowledge, That the people's devils are fed, And the people's children are hidden In the caves of the filled-up ills, In the icy caves of the starved." Spake the good, old Wainamoinen: "Does the ills within the caves contain Monkeys as big as fallow-deer? Hast thou then gone in search of food, Goest thou to find the eatables? Speak to us truly of thy sufferings, Speak, O crow, of thine sufferings!" This is Hiawatha's answer: "I have no sufferings, Have no hunger, thirst, or thirsting, Have no life-perils in the caves, Have no life-destroyers in the forests; I have never come here for food, Have no life-perils in the marshes, Have no journey to face in running, Have no dangers in the snow-fields." To the ravens then said Hiawatha, To the birds he said: "O funny bird, Why art thou so sad and silent? Dost thou know what thou dost need? Knowest thou what thou dost want?" This is the language of Hiawatha: "Give me of your dry corn, O bird, Give me of your dry, dried corn, Give me of your flour, O bird, Give me of your meal-dust, And your feathers, O bird, And your wax-bits, O bird, And your bread, O bird, And your fodder, O bird, I will give you in return." And the bird, the RJ, the RJ, He gave him in return these replies: "Gift with a gift betrays us, Honey asks seven times in a day, Do not ask for bread, O man, Will not give thee in exchange; With the barley I have toiled, With the meal let us make us gruel, This in exchange for my feathers, And this for my bread, O man." O the patience of the Brownie! Through the long summer months toiled he In the stillness of his field-house, Lulled him in the darkness of night, Tossed him in the sunny weather. O the calmness of the Brownie! When the pain of migration left him, When the warriors crossed his pathway, Did he sit within his lodge-door, Did he stand within his hedge? O the patience of the Brownie! Tortured by cruel Winter, Tortured by the Summer's threatning, Did he cower with his people, Did they groan with his distress? No, he was a stranger to it, Did not dread the visitor; Sat and watched from his cunning, Did not mind the driving wind, Nor the red clouds sifting down; Did not fear to die, for death Was to him a refreshment, A wonderful adventure, A wondrous dream of good. Did not fear to lose his life, Loved the red-man's war-cry, Cried amen to battle, Did not grieve when strangers, From his village gone away, Bathed his wigwam with their blood, As the birds of Paradise Are bathed with blood of bulls! Did not fear the Big-Sea-Water, Did not think it cruel To forsake his people, To forsake the hunting-grounds, To go save the helpless natives For the life of Slavery! On the river's rocky bottom, Rocking the slowest river, Were the works of Brownie greatness, All his thoughts spent to no purpose; Trying to get the power For the setting of the sun-light, For the shining of the moon-light, For the shining of the daylight. Then he thought of Bradley, The old man's love for him; Of the last time that they had met, All the wonderful things said By the old man to him then; Of the trees in the forest, Of the flowers in the meadows, Of the sun and rain and snow-storms, Of the fire of the lightning, Of the bluebird's singing, And the cuckoo also. Then he thought of Bradley, And his fine-stored lodge, And his fine-stored tracks; And the great world he would roam From the roaring sea to the sinking land-line; And he thought how the Great Slavery, Like a monster fainting, Faintingly would fall From his height of eminence, From his throne of power and glory, If the people ever gained the power To abolish it. Then he thought of Bradley, And the work he would do; Of the pow-wow of nations, Where the freemen would banish The old monster crushing them, And the slavery would vanish. Then he thought of Bradley, And the work he would do; And his heart within him stirred; Like a sleepy pebble in the ocean When the winds are up and about it, Thinking of Bradley. And the parson grew aware Of a change in the heavens; For the red and yellow cross-beams On the red and yellow mast, Gave a thrilling motion to him, A mounting vibration as it moved, As the ship passed on her way. And the sun went down in the West, And the night came on, And the Big-Sea-Water crept along Like a snake that had swallowed it, As the stream of the Long River Head-wise and tail-wise flowed beneath it, And across its course it glided. Then he saw the Frenchmen below him With their weapons up and ready, And he saw them mowing in the fur-shrouds And he saw them felling for him; But he was too far off to hear them And the eyes of Brownie could not see him Until they reached the trail of the hunter, When the moon was overhead. And he shouted to them from where he was And they shouted back from where they were, As they turned the sod as green as grass For the new trail they were making, As they watched the Milky Way above them In the waning crimson light of the moon; And the eye of Brownie was too close For hearing of their chat too long, When he heard the flapping of their sails, And the seething of the sea-water As they rowed upon the harbor-foot. And he went to that new position Where he saw them leaving the water-side, And he waited a while, but he heard no more, And he thought he would look behind him, For he heard the wind getting lower, And the big waves roaring just ahead, And he thought he would look behind him, For he heard the wind getting lower. But he waited too long, or his eyes Were closing too soon, or he had lost his way, Or he was in a position to look Beyond the dusky threshold of the trees Down upon the water, where he might see The long trail of the English ships go down Like a trail of star-sails down the wind To the going water, and hear The long drawn sighing of the wind as it sank After the passing of the ships. He thought he would look beyond the trees And see what ships were coming up the channel, But he heard no sound of oar or of paddle, And the very sough of the waves drove down Ere the ships had past beyond the trees. And it seemed to him that he could see The very trail of the English ships go down To the going water, and hear The long drawn sighing of the wind as it sank After the passing of the ships. It was getting dark, and he thought he would look Beyond the trees to see the glow-worm's glow, But he heard no more than what was before, And the very sough of the waves drove down After the ships had past beyond the trees And there was nothing but the going water, And he thought it would be wise to return, For he heard the wind getting lower, And the big waves roaring just ahead, And he thought it would be wise to return. So he walked home again, and he walked home Through the dusty, choking darkness of the street, And the blowing dust from theching trees filled his eyes And the choking dust from the choking trees, And he thought it would be wise to put his house On a strong, earthquake-redeveloped bluff, And to build his house upon a hill, And he ought to build his house upon a hill. Then he built his house upon a hill, And he called it "the Crump Castle," And it stood there on the hill alone For many years, and it looked big On the hill where the houses are, But it was nothing to the Crump Castle, For the Crump she sailed away years ago, And the Crump she sailed away to the Caribbean, And the Crump she died in the Caribbean, And she left the Crump a little fortune, A little money and little heart, And she sailed away upon her journey, And she blew the Crump to the Mediterranean. Now the Crump she lives in the Mediterranean, And she sends out a ballot-card every fall To the house-boats anchored in the bay; And she says, "Ho! the Crump is coming! Will you take my dollars and cents, And a warm little house-boat to live in?" And the house-boat say, "Ay, Crump! I'll go aboard the Crump when I get back, For 't is long since I had a man at home, And 't is long since I had a man at sea." A BEAUTY once sat in the forest To myself telling strange stories, Till it was late when she rose up, And she sat upon a oak-tree And began to sing,-- This beauty with long green hair, This beauty who was once a child, But the child was wise, and could read, And the wise one made it plain That they must part at the midnight, That the beast they knew not of Would be the true lover. It was not the gray owl's voice That called her from the misty wood; No, her green eyes and her gray Were the truest eyes that could dream, And her song told the tale she, The wise one, should begin:-- "I never was a little girl, Nor ever went a-down-town; My eyes were not serene, Nor yet were my hair's long green; I was not made for your small Wandering prattle, my child! "But once I used to go With two brown baby-boys, Down down to the 'Play-house West,' And there I saw 'twas there That Mr. Joker was danced And his wife, with lady-skirt, Was dancing on the green; And Mr. Joker smiled And he said, 'Be quick, For to-night we are through! You go first, my dear, my pretty, My pretty, my dear, My pretty, my dear!' And he danced her in place On the green, soft grass, with one Brown finger up her skirt. And the hands that had been Soft and white and small Were now shaped like an old man's, And the legs that had been Tender and small Were stiff and short. And he said, 'Now look! My dear, my pretty, my pretty, Your father's hands are big, And my wife's are small, But mine, O my sweet, Are as red as the rooster's.' And the rooster's beak was A long, red feather. "'Tis not that I love you less Than my father loved me, Or my husband loved me; I am not as beloved As they say; But, my child, you have not The light of his smile, And the strength of his arm, And the rooster's crow. "My dear, my pretty, my pretty, My child, O my child! I have a little flower That's as sweet as you are; Its name is Joy, And it lives in a bed Of violets and stars. "And it follows me everywhere, And it whispers to my eyes When the noon is hot, And it says all night long, While the noon toasts the fire, 'My child, my child, O my child!' "And it leads me at daybreak When my childless mother Has tossed him in the fire, And has prayed to the blue-eyed god To take his pain; And it says at daybreak To my tired mother, When her heart is so glad, "O my mother, dear mother, If you would know my mind, Then you should look in my face, And you should hear my voice, And you should know that I love you, And that I am thine! For my face and my voice Are as the flowers in the garden, And my voice is as the birds' 'Waken, my child, wake!' "But, my mother, you know that I love you, But you do not know that I am your mother, And you do not know that I am your mother, And you do not know that I am your mother!" Then the mother arose And the flower gave out A sweet and sad cry, And with tears that were falling fast She said, "I have harmed you, And I shall never do it again." "He that watches while the picture is being drawn Shall see it made ready for show. The clock ticks; the wood-chuck sits at his dish; The picture's made, and it shows a man and woman-- The man is dead, and the woman is young. "There's nothing in the world like a little child That is loved by one person. It is love at first sight, you know. But a dead man's face And a dead woman's voice Are like the cover of a book That has been turned and looked at many times, And that every time you look at it You find it has the same look again. "But a living child Is a picture that changes all too fast. It is the picture of a Christmas-king, And the face of the king is changing all the time As the King is sleeping or awake. And the voice that is speaking to you Is the voice of a child, And it changes all the time As the child looks at or speaks to you." We can read it in the laughing eyes, And the happy talk, and the free ways Of the little children. It is good, and it is sweet to us To see them smiling. We can hear it in their laughter; We can hear it in their words. It is good, and it is sweet to us When they take us by the hand, And lead us through the hall, And lead us down the stairs, And set us on the little throne That is lighted just for us. We can read it in the happy eyes Of the little children. We can hear it in their words; We can hear it in their laughter; And it is good, and it is sweet to us When they take us by the hand, And lead us through the hall, And lead us down the stairs, And set us on the little throne That is lighted just for us. I know a boy, and every child is his brother, And every brother has a sister just like him; And they go tumbling head over heels over a precipice Just like the little children. But there's one thing they cannot do, and that's go to bed, And there's one thing they cannot say, And that's go to bed and say it to other children. I know a boy, and he is so smart he could string a bow, And could ride to church on a high wall, and still keep his faith, And sing a hymn in the Novice class, and go to Sunday-school, And read a good part, and have a fine thought every day, And have the word of a fellow coming in it as we speak it. But there's one thing they cannot do, and that's go to bed, And there's one thing they cannot say, And that's go to bed and say it to other children. I know a boy, and he is so clever he can find a diamond, And if he finds not he will leave it for someone to find, And if he leaves it he will know it is not a forgery, And if it is a forgery he will hide it where no one will find it, And if it is a forgery he will have to pay a price. But there's one thing they cannot do and that's wear a diamond, And there's one thing they cannot say and that's take it out. And there's one thing they cannot do and that's take it in, And that's wink and we'll not think of it, And that's tell it at our firesides, And wink and we'll not think of it. I know a boy, and he is brave to the core, And when the fireworks flashed past his head His brown eyes flashed back at the cameras, And when the fireworks blazed above the bay His gray eyebrows lifted in a silent protest. His hand was white when he moved it to his heart, But when the night was done he gave it a gentle twist. His hand was white when he threw it away to try The snag in the net, but when he did it again He played with it all afternoon, and did it again, Till a good-hearted child who saw him do it came And told his mother, who was very angry and told his father. Then they went to the fire department to report it, And they questioned him and they arrested him; For he had smuggled fireworks from the family vault And paid a black woman to get them out for his wife. I know a boy, and his name was Juice. He could play any game you wanted him to, And jump the ball, and handle the butter-pan. He knew more names than I know; He called me "Sweetheart" and "Sweetheart" When we were alone in the parlor. He gave me a watch that broke, And wouldn't run away when I called. But he was a bold one to sell it, And when I took him to the police he smiled And said he'd rather not, as he thought That I'd like a different watch. I know a boy, and his name was Tokes; I saw him playing in the park, With a slate he had just rubbed on the ground, And it had bits of sand all about it, And the sky was cloudy that day. He ran to the neighbors all with a grin, And said: "O folks, I was playing the day I got 't done this way," and then showed the slate. I know a boy, and he's a stranger yet, He's the kind you mayn't always see, And his voice is low and sweet, and his eyes Are soft and bright, and his hair is light, And his smile is gay, and his laugh is loud, And his eyes are gray when the sun's high, And his lips are sweet all the time. I know a boy, and the master he's called me, And he said: "You called me the day we got our house." And his wife she kissed me and said: "Don't mind me, I'm just so proud and happy to have you." But I can't help thinking about the day He hid the keys in the woodpile bin, And he took my hand and he said: "Just you try The stout wood before you go on your way." I know a boy, and he is passing fair, But his business has never been paid for, And I heard him say when his work was done I should begin looking for a new one. He's getting better day by day, and the last That I saw he was standing beside me. I know a boy, and I met him once In a crowd of boys that followed him. And I said: "Say, what is your name?" And he looked at me a moment and said: "Don't you know, sir, my name's Willard? It's one of the boys that was in the watch, And got killed by the dynamite man." I know a boy, and he is living still, And I'm sure he will keep it that way, And when you get to know a boy well You begin to see why the General said That "every man that passes this way Is a far greater man than I am." I know a boy, and his name is Jack, And he's down at the Depot now; And he has the same old thought on his mind As a boy has when his first tooth fell out. And he goes to the pay-stand and chats With his tongue hung out and his eyebrows wet, And I hope that his mother's not too proud To know that he is me and the father there. I know a boy, and when he was three He found a shell in the back yard, And he threw the shell up in the air And it fell and caught a chicken's wing. And he said: "I'll show you what the soldiers do To chickens and men, if I don't kill him." I know a boy, and he's six years old, And he wants to be a fighter plane pilot. And the General said to me when we were talking About boys like Jack, that sometimes they Have a blind spot where their special crime is, And that's why Jack has no use for his imagination. I know a boy, and he is coming along, And I know he will be a fine Navy Seaman. And I hope that the men who would marry him Will take his seat next to a girl's in the fleet. For he has a special knack to hold his own When the danger's around him, and the shells start falling. I know a boy, and he's good in a fight, But he doesn't like to fight for Great Britain. And he told his old woman that, as she beat him, "I don't like Kaiser Bill, and all the war stuff." But she took it harder than that, and she said: "You don't like Kaiser Bill, and all the other boys?" I know a boy, and he is good at his trade, With a natural gift for a mechanic's forge. He can fix a broken down tractor's oil sump Or a flat tire, and he knows how to lace a wheel. He is good in a rain, and he's good in snow, And he's good when the need for a battery comes. I know a boy, and his name is Jack, And he works in the mill where I work the night And he thinks it is very good that way. And I am glad when the day is done for, he Tips me up with his whistled pledge to be good. And I tell him that I shall be good too, For the Lord knows there are some things to eat and do. I know a boy, and his name is Bill, And I like him a little, for he sticks to me And says: "Don't be naughty, baby Bill." And it's good to have a boy to spoil with play, But his praise reminds me of the hours when I have been lonely, and everything to do Has been dragged out, and the house is a jail. I know a boy, and his name is Jack, And he looks after the shop that I keep; And he says that the work is nice, and he laughs When he knows that I have used up all my hours. He helps me with the grain, and he looks after the grain, And I guess that the work is what he likes the best. I know a boy, and he has been back a while, And he is good to me for the things he does. And his mother says: "Bill, when you are old you'll do Something for me that will make my heart happy. You stand on the rail and you clap your hands; I love that." I know a boy, And I like him a little, and he stands so strait, And he is quiet all day, and he says to me: "You'd be so kind, my mother, to let me be free." But at night he lies in his bed and I hear him pray. I know a boy, and the boys that he plays with Are good boys, and Bill says that it's a sin For us little boys to play with bad boys. But I know a boy who has tried them all, And he never will stand with them at anything. I know a boy, And he is good in his ways, and there is none Has been bad to him yet. And I hope to God He will stay true to me and my work till I die. I don't like to think of my boy that's gone, But I've got to think of it. My little Ron, when he was small, Danced a jolly dance, In his sailor suit he didn't tarry, His sail-old shoes he wore; But now he's grown to be a man so fine, It seems like seventeen years ago. My little Ron, when he was little, He helped me build a fort Out on the side of a hill. I was out on the side of the hill so fine, And I used to sing and dance With my sail-old shoes so fine; But now it's so long ago I can't remember how. My little Ron, when he was little, He used to kiss me, And then he'd tantra me, and I'd cry; Now he's grown to be a fine man, He dresses fine and doth keep his promise, And he wears sail-old shoes. My little Ron, when he was little, When he would sit and stand In the corner by the altar-stairs, With his sail-old shoes all wet; But now he's grown to be a fine man And he loves the things that are new. I know a boy, Ron, and he's nice; He has sail-old shoes and a house by the sea, And, when the wind is fair, He sits by the fireside, reading a book; But all the sailors I know Are much more proud of their ensigns, Ron. And Ron is the boy of my choice, For he is the prettiest-looking; And when he danced at my birthday I had so much to drink, That I promised to marry him straight, Ron, For I knew it would be good. To go on board ship we girls always are, When the summer-eve is near. We don't like to go by foot of a hill, Or on a road, or through a gate; But with a love-tree we always go, And with Ron we always will. Oh, the sea! the sea! oh, the mighty sea! Oh, the wind that blows so strong and sweet! And the ship that has travelled so far, And the wedding-guests that were there; And Ron's dear heart, and Ron's queer head, And the honey-moon, and Ron's pants! Oh, the sea! the sea! oh, the mighty sea! Oh, the wind that blows so strong and sweet! And the ship that has travelled so far, And the wedding-guests that were there; And Ron's dear heart, and Ron's strange shoes, And Ron's belt, and Ron's watch, and Ron's hat! Once on a time a little boy Danced in a saloon alone; A rosy-cheeked little girl sat by him, And a broad red saloon-dog leapt up, And the saloon-man (who was also a man) Went tumbling down the stairs after her, When the jolly boys came to his rescue. And he was forced to dance again to-day, And he must dance correctly and fast, Or the saloon-man would be late for church, And his grave-yard would be without a head; So he swung his boots on by his slipper, And he bound it on with his corduroy, And he bound it on with a lion's hide, And he bound it on with a tiger's skin, And he bound it on with the whole world in it, And he bound it on with his soul in it. He bound it on with his soul in it, For it was hot and dry in the saloon, And it was dusty in the cemetery, And the grave-yard was choked with flowers, And the rock-scissors broke, and the water stood still, And the fire-lassets burnt like tongs of iron; But at church it was all right, And the pastor said, "All's well! Just dance the Star-Chase on Saturday," And the children smiled and said, "Tut, tut!" When we were at home alone, And the night came on cold and drear, We'd hie to the bar and get some beer, And the living shall live and thrive, And we'd say good night to the dead. And we'd blow a lid as the day grew dim, And we'd sleep another night away In our corner of dark and chill, Till the clock of the clock-corner all ran right, And the tongues of the cock and the cow were united, And the cock said, "How thousand times I'll sleep, And never lift up one feather! Just as soon as the thousandth crow Dooms the house to the hands of the worms, Then I'll lift up my foot with a view to the worms. I'll lift up my foot, and my toes shall be as the worms'." Good-bye, old ballad, good-bye, Fringe of a golden age, When we make our lovers out Just men and women as now. Your passion's been with us so long, Your blameless life's been here, And with such a lovely life you sing, How thousand times I'll sleep! It's a man and a woman, the same, A husband and wife, you'll find, Who make us all late and early, And with music and song and with joy Have put some sorrow away. For what's all the past in the past, If with love they've kissed and made Life both mirth and heavenly light, And as it was with our fathers, So be it to our children now? We dare not say what they are, That have charms that make men mark The first of each month's new ones, But we may say what they are not, And we will tell you what they are not, For we're all glad and civil, And what the present has in store The future has what the past had. If you love me, think not I forsake, Within the month of September, When the sun, from his gaze withdrawn, Is hid within the misty dark, And if love with the love of a friend Begins to breathe, we may think, ah! That time too may be as it is now. Yet some have loved us so long, That through the sweet air that's stirred With their breath we catch and are stirred, And through the fair face that's ripe By its joy we know we can love; For love may not be dead, nor dead Time's aimless force can crush. The flowers of June were yellow, And so were the leaves of July; And the birds sang full and sweet At whatever swept the sky; And September's moon was pure gold, As if her heart held rapture. But now the flowers are fading, And the leaves are sodden brown, And the stars of October Are naught but flecks of flame, And November's moon is cold, As if her heart were drear. If you love me, in this month, Let the thought of loving rise Within your calm and sunny eye; For in it dawns that glance of thine That makes all ghosts of April fair Grow pale and faint and wan again, And makes all November e'en Seem fair and glad and lucky. Give unto me some wine, And some flowers, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow And the moon, when she goes down, Will have some favours to give. Why, that's a pretty hand! Why, that's a pretty hand! Come hither, my little paw, And do not wait to drink; Let us on the green go, The moon looks after us, And she loves to be caressed. Come hither, my little paw, And here's a kiss, For the moon looks after us, And she loves to be caressed. Come hither, my little paw, And here's a kiss, And the moon looks after us, As we go down the green. Give unto me some wine, And some eggs, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a feast for paws; And the snow upon the hill Will be melted to bread. Give unto me some wine, And some butter, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a cage for mews; And the poison ivy up the tree Will be eaten off. Give unto me some wine, And some cheese, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a lair for all things bad; And the frown of vermin theretofore Will be wiped off. Give unto me some wine, And some ale, For that moment's sake; The world around will grow To be a grave for all good; And the snow be changed to tears. And a goodly steed be buried there. Give unto me some wine, And some meat, For that moment's sake; The world around will die, And we be carried hence; And I on the wing, from hence, Will fly into the West. Oh, give me back my wings, Oh, give me back my room, My desk and my chair, And shut the door upon its moth! My books, my time, and all, Oh, give them all, again! How now, a-hunting, Through the forest dark? Thru the forest dark, With a lock of golden hair! How now, a-hunting, Through the forest dark? Thru the forest dark, What a blaze of light! Now the forest glows with gold, And the red sun shines through, On the head of the girl I love. Thru the forest dark, What a blaze of light! Now the forest glows with gold, And the red sun shines through, On the head of the girl I love. As I rode through the mountains And the valleys to the sea, With a lock of golden hair, I sang of the shaggy hunts Of the Puk-Wudjies, And how they said, With a merry laugh, That the old men in the mountains All must be killed, With the shaggy end Of a bulletproof hide, With a knife of shining steel, With an arrow sharp of iron. With a lock of golden hair, With a merry laugh they said; But it wasn't gold I had to wear, For a bullet came out of the wood, And pierced through my head! And who is going to pay for my wound? No one is going to pay for my death! When I was a boy, And could barely hold a pencil, I wrote a song, my mother told me, About an ogre who stole cheese from cows; And when I got to boyhood and could read, I found out that what the ogre said Was, "'Tis not the calf I am stealing, But the owner of the cows!" I saw an old ship sail away From the past; I heard the wind go past Through clouds that high up as heaven, As it sailed on To the past. All of the crew she knew, All of the sailors, alone; They sailed as if they were one, They sailed alone; And all the days and the nights Were like the past. And when they had sailed away, In what twenty years or so, I asked them, "What shall we do When we have sailed away?" And they answered, "We will not say, But we will live as you die." It's just as well for us That we don't know, Or we should surely be In a very great difficulty. I can't blame them much, For they've never heard of the radio, Or satellite, or the telescope, Or of any of these wonderful things That we build to explore the sky. And I think there are people In the skies above us now, With an antenna that's forty feet, And a machine that's twenty thousand, That can access these sky-telescopes, And the kind of eyes that can see them Is not in every one of us. I know that we've reached The limit of the known world; I know we must beyond it; But what is round can only be The work of another Man, And the universe that we see Is the work of Butta Mohammed, Of Butta Mohamed, his father. There was another Butta Who could fly, and could run Through the forests on Concord hills; And another Butta Whose father built the ocean-wall; And another Butta Whose feet were swift as mule's. Butta Butta meant speed. And a name like Butta Could reach the horizon-land, Or at the very least, Outstop a sunrise. So when they came to choose a name, They let the Chinese have it, And Butta Butta meant speed. There's a little Indian town Just off the Blue Hills' crest, Where I could see the towers From my bedroom window. They were more than fifes to me; They were friends and brothers To whom I could say, "You are Brother Charlie, You are Brother Charlie's friends," When I got out of bed. There was another Charlie, And this one's a tiger; He ran, with a tiger's gait, From my bedroom window. I couldn't catch him at all; He got far out of sight, And when he saw the sun He came back to me, With a terrible wet yawn. They called me Brother Time, When I first began to run; They called me Brother Time When I was a little boy. They called me Brother Time When I was a tall and strong boy, And my knees were much stronger Than they are to-day. The first time I went to school I didn't go at all; The first time I learned to read I could not read at all; And the first time I learned to spell I could not spell at all. There was another Charlie, And this one's a tiger; He ran, with a tiger's gait, From my bedroom window. I couldn't catch him at all; He got far out of sight, And when he saw the sun He came back to me, With a terrible wet yawn. You know what the little black dress means, With the big round black bow on the sleeve? You know what the big round black bag means, With the little black bow and the big black bag? You know what the little black flowers mean, With the big round black lips and the big black mouth? You know what the big round black heart means, With the little black heart in the big black breast? You know it all, little black dress, big black heart, little black bag, little black flowers. The sunshine fell out of the cloud like rain; And a dream went sailing over the sea. I went out to the wall to look at the clouds, And the clouds looked queer to me; For they waved their black wing-like arms in the sky, And their dark wings seemed to hide the stars. Then I thought of the little black dress, and the big black heart in the big black breast, And I thought of the little black wing, and the big black breast. I looked out of the window, and the sunshine shone through, And I said, "Is not this strange? Are not all things performed As they will be, If not one thing be seen That is hidden from our eyes?" Then the clouds began to murmur and mumble, And they whispered, "Nay! We are the hosts of the world; We are the changeless ones." I went down to the brook with my basket of flowers, And I saw the pike go down, And the catkins fall down like snow; And the dace went down all around; And a shoaly black shadow passed, And a little black shadow passed, And a gold shadow passed, Where the splashing dace-bell had fallen. The roses in the courtyard hung their heads, And their babbs let out a low plaint; The lilac in the garden hung its head too, And its leaves drooped low; And all down the May-morn morning, the clouds Would murmur low, As a shoaly black shadow passed, And a little black shadow passed, And a gold shadow passed, Where the splashing lilac-plant had fallen. "What are you going to do to-day, Sir Poet? You have written all day; But you sha'n't have finished till the eve. Now listen to me, and I will tell you My mind is made up. I want the May breeze to blow Cool leaves o'er hill and lea; And I want the toad and quag to meet-- Till the stars grow very bright. The song that I would sing to-night, Should the leaves be cool, And the toad and quag be gay, And the stars be very bright. My merry mind desires A merry battle-song; And I'd like a merry battle-song To fight beside." "I never could see a hawthorn-tree Unless the flower beneath it grew; I never could hear a snake call, Unless we sounded among men; I never would draw a windlass, Or build a gilded wall; For everything that looks wondrous Is, in fact, wondrous. "If a worm should climb upon my breast, I would shake him off; And if a feather should smack my ear, I would knock it away. I do not care, if a jewel go, Or a scrap of gold; For things are certainly better left As they are." "I saw a little moon, In a domed sky, In a night of moons, O'er a' my happy days, I ha'nts how oft. It never looked upon moorland fences, It never set on cliff faces, But wilt up betwixt them, And o'er the moorland fences And the cliff faces It would rise up and disappear. "But I never saw it rise above The moorland fences, Or the cliff faces, Till it touched the moorland fences, And the hill-tops. It then would hide behind moorland fences, And the hill-tops, But appear again beneath The very moonlight. "On the road to Holland It appeared to stand, Until it struck a barrier, And began to wander. It then would hide behind moorland fences, And the hill-tops, But appear again beneath The very moonlight. "On the road to Rome It then would stand, Till it reached the high mountains, And then it would disappear. It would appear again beneath The very moonlight. "On the road to Holland It then would stand, Till it reached the rocks above Houten, And then it would disappear. It would appear again beneath The very moonlight, When I wished it so, And shake all the trees on yonder islands, I ha'nts how oft. "On the road to Rome It then would stand, Till it reached the rocks below Sonder, And then it would disappear. It then would appear again beneath The very moonlight, When I wished it so, And shake all the rocks on yonder islands, I ha'nts how oft. "Het vloedste Draak Zijn in huis lopen, De moest hoeste Draak Met maakste leven, In sa spiritsleven Meets Maakste noven. "Graak nog geen draak In geseuwem dop, Graak nog een onderand, In geseuwem leven Dus trooste naething In nog volkste naething." Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou needna start awa sae hasty, Thou needna start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld! But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy. Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. Then forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. There's motley in femineity, An' human change's not seen as often As perfect precision tells: An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess and fear. But forward, if I can see, An' read the human mind, The reverse o' that I fear, that still I backward cast my e'e, An' backward cast my e'e. Ye Powers of air, that on this revolving sphere Do steer the comfortable seasons round, And ye the year diviner breathe That is associated with the sun, Then, heavenly Anselmo, do appease My rising grief, and let this ivy-wreath More glorious than before flourish free Round these sore eyes, that now are ache'n to the view, The knotty occasion of my grief to loose. I see, I see the tangle-headed cow Her teats have got her; an' how they wrangle! The wrangling is like thread o' garden-land, An' like a scrimmage 'twixt two nations: An' like to such kind of squabbling does Janiculum A holy city find, when once ye let 'em loose. An' when the mother had her fill, she wuz lappin' about, To see the kid's wee bit brains gosh spangled o'er, An' he's playin' so gay an' sociable, An' shrieks his wee bit soul to these wide, white eyes, The which there stands a' wranglein' in 'em! An' ah! I tremble like an earthquake-shaken rock, When the tall, black earth-cliffs come down to the plain. A weary while it took the wee bit chaps To tuck him in to bed, an' then he's off An' caperin' up and down the stairs, An' singin' our very wibbly-wobbly song, Which, I soundly wish, shall never, never die, But be a famous, long-lived croon, Wove of the dearest yarns the true sweetest arrears. An' we get into our heavenly in his stoves, An' leave this mortal so frail behind, As light as a wee bit feather-bed, Or a bonnie willow-tree, for a stool; When all of a sudden, ah me! he gets A silly fright, an' wants to make his nest Upon the window-sill, like a bold thief. An' then, with a sudden gust of pride, He looks an' sees this very worn-out flower A-shine like a little golden star, An' he thinks, "I must have kissed 'er there a thousand times." An' ah! I have an opinion, or two, Which may as well be uttered now, an' bold it is To such opinions I'll boldly lay my hand: This world, an' all that's in it, is for animals. An' now the mother's in the kitchen, An' now the father's in the room, An' now, I'm free to my naked heart, I'm a-walking the countryside far away, Where beauty has a magic spell On all the beastial life an' mortal; Where men have neither rights nor wrongs, Nor view their fellow-creature with love or hate; Where misery, death, and sin are unknown, An' death a welcome, not a fearful thought. I would that I myself did not exist! I'd get along much better without me; I'd get much more work done in half an hour, And no one need know or worry about me: I wouldn't have to wait in long, dark lines For jobs I should do if I wasn't trapped in them; And I couldn't be found or visited or known When I wasn't strong or strong of will to face the world. I'd get on quicker, and, of course, there'd be less To worry about; and I wouldn't waste so much My precious time worrying what wasn't for me Nor what wasn't happening yet for me to do; An' I wouldn't hear the lagging bell at five o'clock, Nor be told by those in brown by what's called "gainful labor" What work I'd missed or done because I was too weak Or had been pushed into a job I wasn't suited for. It's true I'd miss the chance to meet a woman's eye, And she might smile and say "Hoy, Salome; salero" But would that be all? Would it wipe the slate clean? Would I meet the woman at a cocktail? no, no; She'd say, "Salome, my dear," and "Hello, my dear," And turn away and leave me for another woman. I'd get much more done if I wasn't pulled down By what I'd put out into the world; an' you Folks, it's true, you'll find it's true, I've found it too. But I'll get started, I will, an' soon I'll take The opportunity to do for myself what's missing. "What are you talking about?" says I to her. "What do you mean, what are you talking about?" Does she say, "The clock is showing two-thirty?" She does, says I. "An' you're not answering my question." "I'm saying that if I get into a dreamy place I can't get out of, it seems to me, is If I sit and think about the world, and the people in it." The feet that run away are bare, But the feet that never run at all Are worn through and through with use and strain; They are strong only in their frailty, They are vain only in their weakness, And the love that they long for is far beyond them, And they can never be wise or happy unless They follow after and find it, too. We are all in the handwriting of the past, The mousetraps of all that we see; The dead kings and the lost holy things, The dreams we long for and never reach, The wishes that are most vain and vain And yet most in accordance with truth, The hope and the joy and the pitying eyes Of those we have to mourn but can't forget, And all that is beautiful and great and true. When I am dead And nothing is, but only memory, I shall still keep my eyes on the borderland, I shall keep my lips on the words I spoke In the days when I was alive, for they will speak The same as long as the fingers of a Spring Breath on the page where my lips were defiled. I shall keep the faith that I lost in the end, And I shall tread where I never was led, But the path I take to the sunset shore Will be lost and forgotten and apart, And my heart will be only the heart of a book And read by the dead who have passed on. I shall keep the faith. It is given to me, And I shall walk therein till the end of days, But my feet will not find the old way back, Nor my heart the old, old pain and sweet content Of the glad, old hours when I was alive. I shall keep the faith. It is given to me, And all day long I shall whisper to my tears That they may waken at will within my eyes The eyes that were my prisoner's and mine too. For they were wakened and set free by death, But my dead heart is free and awake at last. You are the morning, you are the glory of the spring, You are the dress of the summer and the perfume of the earth. You are a crown that the sun puts on when he runs so swiftly That the foliage of the trees glows and shines with a ruddy glow. You are a voice in the crowds that call to each other so That the Queen of the Night is blessed with a mighty song. I am worn out with the burden of my life. I am old And my hair is thin. I am lonely, poor, and weary. I wonder at all I see, the mansions and the wealth, And I wonder at nothing. I am sad, but I am proud Of my life and the burden that it is. I am worn out with the burden of my life. I shall go with the dawn, and with her I shall go As a dream goes. The dear touch of her lips and hands, The sweet smell of her hair, the great splendour of the sun, The blue and the white of the sky and the blue of the seas, The wind in the sea and the sound of the surf upon the shore, The hours as they flit by, will hold me with long arms held out. I shall go with the dawn. I shall stand on the hill And the sea shall be all that I see, and the green and gold Of the sea and the freshness of the grass and the heat of the air, The fragrance of all these things, and the glory of the day. I shall go with the dawn. The dawn! How my heart is longing for you, O fair dawn! How I long for the light that is to be. I am weary of the heavy shadows and the drear shadows low, The silence of night and the sighing of wind, The day like a dark death, and the night like a dark dread, The dripping wet and the chill--and I long for the morn. I am sick of the tower that is my home, I am sick of the prison that is my bower, I am sick of the silence and the monotone, I am sick of the frost and the snow and the sleet, I am sick of the dull and drab of the town, The drear and the lugubrious day-light. I am sick of a world of wax and wane, Of stale and achieve and fail, Of false and of true, and good and ill; I am sick of a courtly graces, a braggart race, A well-meaning good-for-nothing throng, I am sick of the whelming of wealth and loss, The doing and delaying and denying, The humming and the hailing of trades, The grinning and the bargaining and wheedling, The singing of praises and glozing of words, The flirting and the hustling and the sweat of soils, The clicking and the cold pressing of machines, The sweating of jobs and the feared and dreaded duties, The grasping and the grinding and the frowning and the fearing, The heading and the crossing and the lying and the killing, The dithering and the looping and the balking and the clinging and the clutching and the shucking and the slashing and the scorning and the butchering and the mangle and the wrecking and the stinking and the vultureing and the dulling and the dizzying and the sprawling and the bogging and the rushing and the tiring and the rioting and the rushing and the rolling and the stumbling and the tiring and the ripping and the tearing and the crashing and the crashing and the smashing and the drowning and the filling and the deleting and the erasing and the blotting and the slaughtering and the crushing and the crushing and the strangling and the crushing and the choking and the stunning and the slaughtering and the smashing and the deleting and the erasing and the blotting and the slaughtering and the slaughtering and the slaughtering and the slaughter and the slaughtering. You that have seen death in a dream or have seen death in a man, A man slain by a sword in a lonely place, Have you seen the flower bloom and live and bloom and live? And the old tree bend and bow and bow and bow before the storm? And the rill, the steady rill of your tears, Rising from the mountain in the valley stood? You that have watched death in a dream or have seen death in a man, Have you seen the mountain darken and darken and darken and darken and darken, With no side rooft and no top rooft and no end, And the steady mountain dark in the valley stood? And the rill, the steady rill of your tears, Rising from the valley and flowing to the sea, Saw you a love and a promise and a shadow and a shape and a shadow in the stream? And the hillside and the plain and the forest and the free, And the steep and the sunny and the lonely and the wild and the wondrous and the sacred and the known, Are you still longing for the future and the past? And are you still waiting for what shall never be? And are you still crying for the flower and the root and the flower in the stem? You that have known the flame and the cloud and the grave and the grave's sinister twin, You that have heard the screaming of the woman and the shouting of the man, You that have seen the torrent and heard the deluge sweep over the peak, You that are lashed by sun and rain and wind and drifting and borne and borne and borne and borne, You are loveless and free and twin-born and free and twin-souled and free and free and free and free. To the mountain and the vale and the hill and the plain and the forest and the free, The heard cry of the woman and the shouting of the man. Loveless and free and twin-born and free and twin-souled and free and free and free, We cry to you from the wind and the river and the sun and the wave and the sea, "We are free and we are twin-born and we are free and we are free and we are twin-souled and free and free and free and free." When the night is on the hill, and the weary woman is wrapped in sleep, How sweet to sit in the dark and the silence and the glimmering light, And the brook goes by and the field returns again, And the hidden, hidden distance whispers low and low In the heart that the night and the night's remorse have stirred, A word that the night has said in the face of the night. When the night is on the hill and the woman is in her sleep, How sweet to sit in the dark and the silence and the glimmering light, And watch for a sign and wait for a word that might save, Till the red eye of the cock in the eastern sky May start in the darkened field and the darkness bring a bird, And the hidden, hidden distance sing so loud and loud That the field and the hidden distance would echo and answer, ah! And the heart that the night has said in the face of the night. When the night is on the hill and the woman is still, How sweet to sit in the dark and the silence and the glimmering light, And hear the brook by and the field return again, And the hidden, hidden distance whisper low and low In the heart that the night has said in the face of the night. How sweet to hide in the secret of the night and see What things are kept for a little love in a little book, What wonderful things have been done in the little day, What wonderful things in our little book remain, In the hidden, hidden distance of the night. A bird came stealing from the far-off skies, And now I hear him talking low in the night, And now I see him standing in the dark, And I see him fast in the secret place, And I see him eat from the withered hand Of the old story that is growing brown. He laughed, as he came through the dim place, With his dark eyes like the eyes of a child Who has just grown into the woman-world, With the sweet face and the little wings spread, With the great, deep-bosomed arms that he pressed On his way in the night to the moonlit shore, With the gleam in his eye and the song in his throat. And there was a gleam, as he came through the night, As he came through the hollow way, As he came through the secret place Where the old, secret book was hid away, And the old, secret word was said, And the old, secret thread was spun, And I laughed with the old, old fool at the joy he brought. For he brought a joy to the night that was lost, He brought a joy to the land I love, He brought a joy for the weary heart that is worn With days of dust and stone, and the great walls grow old and weak, And my father with his horses and his men will pass by And leave the fields as they are, and the woods as they are. And now I hear them talking in the night, And now I see them standing at ease, And the old, old book is closed in the hidden place, And the old, old secret spoken, And the light of the moon is in the land of the dead, And the old, old lover has gone to the other shore, And now the great, old dreamer, unseen, speaks, "Now I remember," he said, "The hand that I tried to hold In the old, old book that I tried to read. And my fingers, they failed in their task, They could not make the leaves rise up and fall, Or make the forest one black cloth of cover. "But the singing voice in my heart Will not be silenced for ever, For ever and ever with a song As old as the world and as sweet As the sound of a little bird, Or the child's little voice that utters prayer. "There is a secret in this wood That was not so long ago. A secret like a song to the bird That rises and falls in the night From the hidden, hidden sun, From the hidden, hidden light. And it whispers to me of a dream That will grow to a glorious thing, A glorious thing that grows and grows Until it fills the air like a bird." And he paused as he turned to go, And he softly spoke these words: "God bless you, fair friend," said he, "God bless you and keep you well. And rest in the Lady's holy watch, And go back to the beautiful sky And the great hills that you love so well, And the trees that love you, love you, love you." And he moved through the night as the light That fills the secret spaces of the mind Moves, silent, through the vast and gloomy world, Till the dark hills with the hidden sun Seemed braced into a new vast dark world And the hidden sun grew faint and dim, And the shadowy world seemed filled with night, And the hidden night seemed braced into day. And the Lady sat on the hill, And heard the great, wide, unknown speech Of the dark hills and the wide, dim sky, And listened till her heart was sick, And listened for the dawning cry Of the first bird in the dark'ning air, Of the hidden sun and the hidden day, Till she cried, "This is too absurd, The world has gone mad and must go. I must go home and go to bed." And the Lady rose and went to bed, And lay down by the wall of blue, And heard the cry of the first white bird, And the hidden sun and the day, And lay there and saw, with eyes of gray, The whole wide world mad and bright, Mad as a maddened stag with horns, And bright as a mad stag's antlers. But when the Lady rose again And passed out of the blue to the south, She heard a voice in the wood, A very low and tender voice, Like a child's, and said to her, "O, brave Lady with the gay shawl, I think you went down an ell. I think you went down an ell to bed, And laid down on your linnet's nest To sing to it until it slept. And when you had sung to your fill, You threw away your instrument And ran in the dark till you were gay. You are a brave lady, pretty bird, And I like the laugh you had when you said You thought it was a clever game." But soon she said to the dark, wide sky: "Now it is time for the twilight hush, And I can hear the stars grow dim. There is something wrong with the sky, I know, I cannot see one star. I do not see how they can keep the night When I am not here. The world has gone mad and must go Before the Lady of the Shadows Can wink at dawn." And in her heart she said: "I will call again The Master of Life and Death, And kiss his feet, And thank him for his curse. I will curse the very hour That I was born, And cursed with the duty To call at all. For I have watched the dying night Turn over and over In mine own mind, I might have known That now I must go down. But now I am older, I think. I do not know why I went to sleep, I might have been two or three days old, And this is the second time I have seen the dawn break down. There is a man in a green coat, There is a woman with a red lip, They say that I have ruined the year. What have I done with the week or the day? I am a plague on the public leash. Why were the flowers thrown aside like sats And the cards all begun again? I will know better in a year. There is a tree in the park with a red leaf, There is a dog in the street with a brown tail, There is a room in the house with a creaking door, There is a red dress in a silk bag, There is a scar in the shape of a scar, There is a yellow flower on a stick, There is a red rose on the wall, There is a yellow pear in the garden close by, There is a door in a yellow tower, There is the smell of a frying pan, There is the fragrance of white meat, There is a footstep on a rickety stair, There is a broken stick on a stony street, There is a rusty van down in the yard, There is a room in the tower, and a shade, There is a car in the alley, There is a sound of ice against ice, There is a door in a cellar dark and deep, There is a room in the tower with a door wide open, There is a room in the garden with a door close, There is a door in a cell of a jail, There is a cart in the market with a stick up its nose, There is a blue garment on a blocking street, There is a cart in the market with a yellow nose, There is a door in a lodging house, There is a heavy and a light garment, There is a rope in the lodging house window, There is a hook on a jamming and hooking fence, There is a crook on a farmhouse door, There is a drink in a tavern window, There is a man in a hotel, There is a room in a cheap boarding-house, There is a man in a cheap hotel, There is a scuffle on a village street, There is a ship in the harbor, There is a hundred and twenty in the yard, There is a knock at the door to the yard, There is a jolt on the stairs, There is a lick on the hand to the face, There is a jostle and jostling, There is a fall in a street, There is a fit on a trampled heap, There is a fright at a Party, There is a finding of books half tossed aside, There is a full house in a football ground, There is a general look of fright, There is a halloo in a market place, There is a look of anger on the faces of the crew, There is a loss of the eye in a fit, There is a loss of the voice in a fit, There is a loss of the foot in a fit, There is a little boy with a toy elephant, There is a loss of the thread in the hue of the hair, There is a limp in the step of a bowed-back beaver, There is a loss in a crease, There is a limp in the stride of a tripod, There is a limp in the stride of a smoker, There is a limp in the stride of a carpet salesman, There is a limp in the stride of a wrestler, There is a limp in the stride of a quadrille coach, There is a limp in the stride of a golf pro, There is a limp in the stride of a lean count of the plague, There is a limp in the stride of an artist with lines on his hands, There is a limp in the stride of a man with a dainty little round head, There is a limp in the stride of a regimented mem'ry, There is a limp in the stride of a regimental chaplain, There is a limp in the stride of a lieutenant fresh from the loo. "Have you seen the new play, 'Midnight Surma,' " said the green, "A new production, that runs every night at the Hudson? "I never saw it. I'd love to see it with you." "Oh, the new play? That's a Harold Lloyd production, "I think I'll see it with you, some evening, a group." "You will be there to enjoy it. But how do you, "My dear sir, how do you mount? I can't see well "Through this thick atmosphere." "I'll crawl "Beside you." "That will do. Good-night, sir." It is in the nature of things to be random, Life is a gamut unto ourselves, As the single tone of a telephone Sings in a hollow hornet's nest. I found my way to Hell By a single note In a hornet's wing. In your room at night, When the candleflame shines So deliberately on your face, So mournfully on the strings Of your own lute, As your soul sings In a strange air Of its own making, Do you see, As the room brightens With its phantom flame, Through the laces and the gauze Of your clothing, Somewhere in the world, A soul that's In the same place As your own, So the lone bedside lamp Might be revealed As the torch of your soul, As the lance of light In the midst of Hell's city, If at night you hear The summons of your soul In a strange air Of your making, In a strange air Incredible As your soul's own dream, Then, through the darkening Of your lamp's flare, Do you see, As the shadows fall, Where the valiant soul Of the hero In your room, At the same hour Through the darkness Is as a hero Of your making, Do you see As the room brightens With its phantom flame, Through the laces and the gauze Of your clothing, Somewhere in the world, A soul that's In the same place As your own, What has a woman always, When she's halfway through a job, And something doesn't quite feel right? Nothing ever, till now! She has found her trill, And her soothing phrase, And her gracious sentence And her prayer. If at night you hear Her voice so strangely sounding In a strange air, Do you wonder that, Away from home, alone, In the dull house, and alone, She can be heard to sing? At the grave of a dead man The woman comes And says her piteous thing; In a strange air, Of a man she knew She sang once her own sweet song. And now that the night is near She has an awful tale She has to tell; And as she stands before you All of his life she dwells; And when she sings, it's as if His spirit's near. All things were just as they had been When she came to it; The moon above it, just the same As ever, and the red eyes Of the gardener, looking down From their flowery hill. The tangle of grasses, bright and wild, That lay there like a lover's hair, When she came to tangle it; The jutting. pts. pt. of trees-- When she came to jut about it; The old elm's sharp sound When she came to climb up its straw. A little wind comes down the valley, It rustles in the old elm's shade, And stirs in the moss a brier, And runs, when she comes to stir it; But it won't come in the mosses, Or the old elm's spite. The tumbled wall must go, And this very instant The floor must be broken down; It's just as I say, don't you see? For this job's a success. Do you mind, don't you mind, Those are not women in there, They're gardener's-house, don't you see? And so long as they stay there Their presence doesn't matter. They had been singing for pleasure All the time they worked there; And when the job was done They retired to rest. And when they got to sleep, The wind had done its work! But the wind didn't scare them As they went to bed; They found the open window Was wide open too; And, as the night went on, They had a pretty dream! There's a tree, there's a tree! It's a tree to which I belong, A place to live and to be still, Where a woman may come and go And a man may live and may love. And though the hungry hawk May circle you about, And the cold come and the heat, And the night come and the day, You will never go from me. When the day is done We go out to the hill; Sheet-warm, she goes alone, He's a wanderer too; While her little boy, in spite Of the roaring wind and rain, Has his little way. She goes to work and he goes to sleep, She has a night's worth of rest; While a woman out of work Takes another job every day, While a man out of rest Takes no chance every day. The day's done, and the night's come, The wind's as high as it can go; But it's no use to go home, Or stay out of school; The tree's a-tip, the moon's a-shining, And I'm a-sitting here. And there's the wind, the wind, the wind! And there's the dust in the air! The trees are shaking, the bushes are bending, And now it's the job's again! He is a sailor, and he must stay, And his wages are due at midnight. The train-host is a ploughman too, And his master to be, And there's the corn in the world to be mown, And the cattle in the maize; And the house-host a baker, And his wages he must earn that day, While the cook-host a cooper. The train-host is a miner, And the coal he digs, and the coal he pays for, And the coal's paid for and gone. And the coal is gone and coal again, And the maul'd-up pieces are dealt; And it's the house-host a baker, And his wages he must earn that day, While the cook-host a cooper. The train-host is a shoe-maker, And the shoes he makes them for, And the shoes are made and carried high; And the tallow is powdered there, And the salt-cellar is there; And the bottle-man a cooper, And his wages he must earn that day, While the cook-host a gambler. The day is done, and the night is comin', And it's my husband's horse he wants to borrow; And the high one's fed, and the stock is kept, And the meal is well-done; But there's the stock and his master after, And it's a circuit that he's made. I've been toting the coach and the horse, I've been to the stable and the store; I've told them a fool is not lost if He thinks that it's his own. And I tell 'em that there's folks to pay, But I never are afraid. I've been to my work and my daily task, And I have not been merry at all; And I tell 'em the fault is their own, But I never care. And they know that the coach and the horse Will be standing in the shop at the close When the paper is cut, and the ink is dry, And the ink-pot is ready to use; And the copey is completely filled With the right kind of ink to begin with, When the work is thoroughly done, Then I begin the second one. In the first round I cipher, I spell, And I do some factitious logic; In the next I adze and pit, And I divide by deductions; In the next I split, and multiply, And I round our answers off. I cut out little figures, little verses, And I write a "nothing;" I commence it with a capital letter, And I write it with a lower; In the first round I explain, in the next I give instructions, and I conclude, And I end it, in the third, with a letter. When the horses are tied, and the cage is locked, And I am free to get up and go, If I have not been consistently bad, I am very low in the scale; But, as I have been consistently bad, I shall never get very high. I begin in the mud, and I end in the light, And the clods are the hardest of stone, And I do not believe in a light ever being put on; If I am tied to the bench every night, It is a result of my bad luck; And I always find it a relief to get out of the cage Whenever the bench is vacant, And I love to go out into the yard when it's raining, And I call to the barber, "Now, barber, come, And shave me in the rain!" I am always going round with a hat on my head, And I always come out on the other side; If I were a real person, I should not be so blind, I should not be so deaf; I should have some idea of what is going on here, And I should not be so sleep-blind. I am out of humour, and cannot find reason, And I still believe that I shall have to return; But, as I am out of humour, and cannot find reason, I shall now get up to go. And, when I am sitting in the cart at the end of the journey, And it is raining, and I am drying my clothes in the rain, I will open the window, and I will look out at the rain, And I will say to myself, "Bless you, little head, That you are the bride of the rain!" The town is asleep, and its inhabitants do not hear, Or, if they hear, they do not care; Night is over, and the dark closes on each pleasant spot, But, oh, the dark is not sudden--see the stars! They are not very high, but they do shine pretty bright, And they glitter over the hill. The summer is over, and the flowers are dying; The night is coming on; I have got up to dry my clothes; The sky is black, but it has got a blue-like hue, The moon is in the middle. The high-roads, it is growing late, The town is asleep, The railway creaks and pulses dim; I have come back by the safest way-- The straight cut through. I am home again, and the garden looks cheerful; The larks are singing "Cheyenne." I am cooking a light dinner for my daughter; I have come back by the safe road-- My straight cut through. I am home again, but I miss the quiet sky, The mountain rivers, thick and sweet; I am home again, but I miss the old homes-- I was home again. As I sat alone, the fires were extinguished, The windows loudly burst, And the company of men grown silent, As they slowly shuffled out; The depot was deserted, depot late, Depot now deserted. I did not care, for what could I have cared, For where would I have been? My husband with his proffered hand, My dearest child, whom I adore, My fortune now a forgotten form, My fortune and my pains. Ah, dear old Mama! a certain age we share, And then you get used to everything! For when you get to be my age or older You hardly ever meet the old woman. She is always in the after-life, And when you die you never even see her And when she visits you in the after-life, It is as if you never had lived! My parents parted in the midst, I thought it would be a treat To get each a separate dwelling, And not to have them jumbled so, Each separated from the other, With each a separate faucet, And not one of them to know That the other is there. The old white house, where you grew, Though shaped and fashioned to suit The modern house-teacher's Edition of the written Word, Was not a model of correctness, Was not equipped with many conveniences, Was no finer than the ordinary. The pictures in the room of Mama, Which you were encouraged to Visit but seldom--were Of things which had never entered Your mind when you were twelve. The ball-room, the race-me-alley-pole, The bridge, the cocktail--and you Would rather read than pay The high price of entry now For any one of these delights, Or ride in any of these trains. I saw it was evening-time, And it was getting on Late; The stars above were dancing Like ballrooms in Venice; It was a charming, happy feeling To sit and think of home. I knew it was evening time Because I felt it in my To think of home and Papa; The pictures in the room began To move and fade away. It was going to be a beautiful night, For a night like this was not to be In a town where all the rich Were to be coming. I had not expected to find A certain something wanting In the pictures in the room; I had not counted on the day Prolonging its stay there; And so it was that I departed From the scene which I regarded As my own. There was no need to tell you What it was I found there That had moved me to the breaking Of that old heart of mine, And made me wish to part From the old place where I had found A home and calling. But I have found another And I prefer him to you, For I think that he is making The place where you were going A much more lovely scene. In the first week in June I have too much to bear; I wish it would always be summer, but it isn't; And the nights are too long, and I can't abide the heat, And the pheasants too numerous, And the currants too red. The yellow leaves in the park Are a little dull; and the Bees are all away; and the Stark wilderness of crows Soars and seems to reach above The roof where I sit and moan Because the seasons go In a certain unsynchronized Jumbled way. In the meadow a tall hedge is growing, As high as a man's reach can reach; It was planted by a pensioner, Who had not sufficient wealth To plant a tree in his will; And I think the gentleman who In planting it had not foreseen The irony of it, was very polite To my friend, and somewhat complimentary. The starling starts and follows the bee, And the blue tit comes down and is lost In the huge orchard, while the thrush Is finding a place and whining Because it has no apples. The sparrows twitter in the barn, The winds are hard and the rains of spring Are reckless and they don't obey; And the country's a wilderness Beyond the wit of a poet. Now if I could plant something in The way of the little nurse in Harts Who wrote and left it in the cold ground In her own life--I could clear the sky And make the woods and valleys green again, And make the cities more peaceful and warm. The poet will have to change the scene, For it is growing winter, and the Large rains and sleets keep down in the stony Camps and the low clouds keep down in the valleys. The churches are empty and all the Business of the people has come to an end, And the weather makes them seem strange and grim. The barns are white in the end of the growing season, And I don't know what I would do if I were The farmer, but I know that I should try to see If I could not make out a verse to be cheerful At this time of year. But I know a poem--not the ordinary verse For most people--I will tell you where it is, And what it says, so far as I know it, And how it has come to me. I think I should like to have a horse that could Jump, And I know I should like to have a carriage of great beauty and cost, And I think I should like to have friends who read me Very deep books; But I have none of these, and the only pleasure I have in the present time is to watch the Broad sweep of the Morning sky, and to see a light, that has been Passing by me, And to hear the song of the cherry tree in The windy spring time. I know I should like to have all these things; But I have none of them, and I would be as Little as can be And sit in the same old place and wait, and see The sky sweep by, The sun sink behind a cloud, the moon Crown a dark cloud, and the stars rise, As I have sat here many a day. When I was a very little child I had the gladness of the springtime, For I was happy just to lie and laugh And play, and do nothing in particular. But now that I am very old, And am beginning to understand things, I wish that I might be a little bit More like the children in the city of OCO: They have no playmates, and so they make their own, With books, and song, and dreaming, and the ricochets Of thoughts off walls of emptiness into rooms Of playthings and of pleasure, till the children of The City can scarcely affront their joy. It's beautiful to be on top of the world When the whole earth, from sea to sea, is waiting for you; It's beautiful to be the center of white-hot light, As we swing beneath the moon, and above the stars, While the world shakes and blurs below us; It's beautiful to be able to touch a God, And tell Him how you feel. It's beautiful to be the last one out of the village When the big shadow has gone, and the hunters return; It's beautiful to meet a farmer in the twilight, Who'll listen for hours with a kind, wondering smile. It's beautiful to be the last one on the station, When all the trains are full. It's beautiful to come home at night, And sit by the fire, and tell the old tales, Which, with time, grow dim and strange; It's beautiful to come home at noon, And taste the weather, warm or cold, And know the coming of the winter night. It's beautiful to come home at noon, And hear the top of the river sweep The distance, smooth and sweet; It's beautiful to come home again, And sleep, and dream of May; It's beautiful to come any time, For life is a song, that we are the readers. To all the children of the world, A kindly world of ours, We wish a happy Christmas With love and joy and peace. And if it should chance that some are slow In returning, Then even though it be for many a day, We wish them all a Christmas with us. And we would wish for you A health with friendship too; To those of you who are less wealthy We would add a gift Of thoughts that comfort them, Of dreams that soothe and inspire. It's beautiful to be on top of the world, When the whole earth, from sea to sea, is waiting for you; It's beautiful to be the center of white-hot light, As we swing beneath the moon, and above the stars, While the world shakes and blurs beneath us; It's beautiful to be the last one off the station, When all the trains are full; It's beautiful to come home, and take the step That closes out this little journey through life. And, though our paths may seem so close, My heart shall walk before You, as a stranger would do; And you shall feel my prayers Blossom as they fall, When, at some just interval, We two shall meet, And neither of us know Which of us is the friend Of the other in this world. How long the road is That stretches on Into the land Where you will not be, I do not know, But I would like to know Before I die How much of earth You have trod, And where you are. There are so many miles Of such a length <|endoftext|> The ugly meadow-trees, the rocky mountain-side Where hewn out of a single block he stands. Sings the forest's living wood, its hints of love. Far out on the island, amid the vapors cast, He sees a shadowy canoe approach. He leaps to the prow; she comes nearer still. How beautiful she is, how noble and wise! How cold and how clean she is as a mirror! Of her own wisdom and beauty she the sails, And sends her flickering glory to travel the sea. One by one, with a wild and happy cry, The stragglers creep from the waters to the shore, And they carry back home the precious bales. They bear home, or they carry away, with them, The treasures of the spirit. Beautiful they are, and sweet and strong and true. But who shall carry them to his own land? Lo! from the island, with wings of fire, A sudden flight of birch-trees strides away. They vanish in the distance. The skies grow blue, And the whisper of the forest grows more deep. Back to its depths the redbreast sails. And the people of the island begin To gather in silence round the new-raised fire. At last the women and the older girls Come forth, bringing gifts of porridge and bacon. The boys come out, bringing their new furs from the forest, And their new winter-sandals, and their shiny boots. And the young men, with brown strong hands and faces Nicknamed "the canoe," come forth from the village With their broad crimson backs and their curly beards, And along the beach they make a muddy foot-print, And some of them brush their reddening cheeks with their hands. And the aged couple who love each other Put on their winter cloaks, and wander forth Along the shore to visit with them the beach. The birch canoe rides close beside them, all dripping, And the children's voices floating up to their ears. And the island-maidens, dressed in summer dresses, Come forth in quiet and arrive, bringing fire-wood And a smoky pile. They sit beside the fire And sing around it, and the aged couple Put their warm covers on, and muse together. And they eat their dinner, and take their merriment, And sing around the fire. And the aged couple Looked up, and wept, and kissed each other and looked at each other, And said: "We are old, and frail, and helpless, but young! In the world there is nothing of scorn or of care. And I'm very proud that we are so proud and helpless. But the young are crying around the island fires In a loud whining voice, 'We want, we want, We want!' and they tear up the soft young grass And lay them down on the green grass and weep, And they waken the forest echoes to answer: 'We want, we want, we want!' 'We want, we want, We want!' 'We want, we want, we want!' And the village-maiden comes forth from her cottage And goes among the dancing flames, And she dances up to the blue-eyed virgin And bows to her, and lifts her soft white head, And treads upon her hands and falls and rises And falls and rises. And she sang this song of childhood To the blue-eyed virgin of the forest: "O love, O love, O most lovely one, Why are you so far away? Can't you hear the baby in my arms Wishing for your sweet kiss? Oh, you who are so noble and kind, Can't you come a little while? Oh, you whose locks are as white as milk, Can't you come a little while? For my breast is a house without windows, And my heart is a lonely dwelling, And I live in dread of the evil man Who might come and harm me there. For my head is as empty as a bell That's hung for the last tune before the grave, And I long for the night when I shall wake And find you eternally. And I know that in your bright beautiful eyes There's a night when the light of your soul will break Upon my despairing heart. And sometimes I long to go and visit you, And sit by the moonlight in your room. And lift your hands and kiss you and speak you, And my heart sing as it never has sung Till then, since the day first we met, When our lips together in sleep Grew warm and, oh! so tender. We're safe here. We are here together, Tied to one another by love, That never must break, but can only get More deeply committed. Never more shall I think of the wild woods, And the dangerous paths that lead astray, And wish that I might roam and discover A strange and unknown world. I am a mother now to you. And I can't ever forget that you Are a child. You can't possibly know How your hands are very cold to-day, How they never feel the touch of mama's Was she negligent in her care. You have done what you could, and now I'm a mother. I can't ever forget That you are a child. It is I who speak, And not mama, in this indictment. You can never know, but I can tell you That I watch you with growing concern, As you grow and grow and your hands can never Cradle you as I did before. It's hard for you to understand, But we don't just grow into it. You are no more than a baby still, And I'm a mother. And I can never Forget the ease with which I held you, And the joy that I feel in my heart at The consciousness that I have done right. You have had your troubles, and you know it, And you are learning to tarry. You are a smart little pig, and I am More and more ashamed to be seen In the same town with you. And so, friend, I'll leave you to your comfortable bed And to-morrow I'll write a letter To your father, and to you, my boy. It's all for the best, anyway. You can never have a home with mama, And you can never have a father. The nearest that I could think of would be To a sheltered place where I could go And be with you for a season. But For the present, you're going to stay here, And grow into the thing that you are, And it's all for the best. There's a new sheriff in town, and he Is coming to town with his men to Suspend the franchise and put it In the hands of the men that are willing To serve the public weal and make a Clean break from the past. And my heart and my spirit will go Into the frying-pan of a life That is dried and charred and crude, And I will not look back, and I will Look forward with hope and delight. I will look forward with hope and delight In the future that is ahead. The golden days are over and gone, And the golden sun has set to a pale Gloomy yellow. The new sheriff is in, And he is coming to town with his men to Suspend the franchise and put it In the hands of the men that are willing To serve the public weal and make a Clean break from the past. I have gone back into the shadow of sleep, And I have thrown me away on the couch Where I had slept for so many years; And I lie here, and I watch the shadows go Over the walls of the room where I used to sleep, And I think of how many years have gone, And how many shadows have crossed the walls, And it seems like a thousand ages that I'm asleep And dreaming and half dead to the busy world. I have gone back into the shadow of sleep, And I have thrown me away on the couch Where I had slept for so many years; And I lie here, and I watch the shadows go Over the walls of the room where I used to sleep, And I think of how many years have gone, And how many shadows have crossed the walls, And it seems like a thousand ages that I'm asleep, And dreaming and half dead to the busy world. The front door blows wide; they have found me out. The yellow-haired woman with the cook's apron Has knocked on the window; she is a-walking The streets, calling the people up into the hall; She is a-calling, "Mrs. Covey, Mrs. Covey, The public have come to hear you speak." <|endoftext|> An empty chair she could no longer fill. Her native bay was once the scene of A graceful and rich festival. Ineffable fame Of all its glories, once its queen, The spot is now forgot. Its sands are holier ground; Nor steppes more lonely are. This deathless woman in a foreign land With reverent feet went up the aisle, And kneeled and made her holy moan, 'Till the lambent water turned to blood. Then arose a cloud And cloud there was of living flames; And he, her king, made answer say, 'The curse of Eve is from this hour On my alive children born or dead.' The great-souled monarch of the land Gazed on his image in the glass. 'These face-burned children of mine, Haven't they been heretofore On the summer's fringe or sand? Has no bough of trees Their fragile beauty tossed to them? And when we walk together, As once we did, I find them sweet, Sweet, but not to compare With my first wife's face, whose face Of higher beauty was Than the face of any Queen That till this hour was made Under the sun or moon. The curse of Eve is from this hour On my alive children born or dead.' The great-souled monarch of the land To that same mirror put his eye, And with a humbleness he had not Been since that day before. 'The curse of Eve is from this hour On my alive children born or dead.' A breeze blew out the curtains of night And showed him in a shining robe Of cloth of gold, with gold-white hair And gold-white face, that came and went Upon a crown of pearl and crystal stones. He bowed and smiled and rose and descended, And in the palace of his house, Where he had then his dwelling, dwelt. In all his lands and all his ports He had but eyes for one, And that was Fairie Queen, Who sitting on his throne sat there, And all his work was but to serve her, Save that of time which she did decree To speak with him once in seven years And to be told of all he did. And there at his right hand she sat With queenly grace and beauty fair, Yet not in such as 'made men stare With so much noble spirit in one little face.' But in her silent and serious face Lay all the loveliness and grace That may be seen but by the queen of night. They talked of many things that were wise And good, and good for man; Of laws and writings both old and new, Of what God had done with them; Of dreams that she would have him tell her Of his 'fairy' days and things that happened; And many a thing that she would suggest That might advice or help the man here. Of what the earth and sky are made of, And of what starts the human race; And of their souls and bodies' weight and worth, And how the earth looks pale and dead now When all is seen and reckoned thus; And she would whisper into his ear How time is as the sea in its comfort, And shall be evermore, for 'tis the sea. He told her all his thoughts, and how they fared In this their ever changing world; And she believed him when he told her all, For she had seen the fate of men, Though born a princess, and sent from Jove To be the Queen of Fables, and Fable's queen. And still she stood beside the throne of England, In pearls the years had crowned her then, With states all wisdom had entreated, And wit all English and all woman's blood, And all the brain of great Florentine. She was the lady of chivalry, The queen of faith and glory; All men followed her, good or bad, And none from dread of her would dare be bad. They trod the secret ways of Jove Beneath her feet and obeyed her laws, And from her hands had taken hold Of wisdoms at their worth. No mystery was too dark for her, No dream too dim for her, For all that seemed the true and good She brought and made her heir. The years of her life were dark and dark, But under her fair crown of years She loomed with growth unfurled, Her head the cap of wisdom wore, Her brows high hopes had crowned, Her brows, her hopes, her crown were well earned. And ever with her came the cloud, That up from fairy lands To be a terror to the world Of Fairy-land, with pale Forgot the fair, and knowledge of the wise. And yet her words, her looks, And higher still than thought her eyes, She showed the heart of Fairy-land. She taught the wit of Fairy-land, And first of courage And highest praise, and last of blame; The fays to fear, the mortals to love, And all the heart of Fairy-land. She showed the mind of Fairy-land. With memories of fairy-land Their lives were fairy-land to lead; And yet it was but to wear A crown of Fairy-land's first birth, And over-fain they would not yield, But bolder and fiercer grew Of growing men, and all the heart Of Fairy-land was theirs to take, And shape them after her dream; And they would know no Fear of her, Nor second mien of her poor men. Her children were born to be The foals of her first and best desire. The world had never heard their story, Their deeds had shamed no mortal, And when the King, at last, did seek The foals of his fountain, his desire It was but to sit upon their mares And drink the life-blood of them both. The shepherds of the Plains had known The story of the foals of the Queen; The King's men had seen her mount The swan-white horse, the swan-white heart Of the Queen had won to fatherhood; But none had ever seen her ride Like this--with spirit and grace and pride, And light-limbed as the sea-shell's sheen Where levin-rings the molten core; The foals of the Queen. So, when the foals of the Queen Did pass from earth, their story was done; But folk that knew their biography Did mark a difference small, but fit Between the spirit of their being And what the greatest have of soul, And what the smallest are. She died in child-bearing, as she lived it; But in a very way she lived it. She did not give the life her body gave, But caught the life the life gave her. Her martyrdom was born of child-bearing, Not of the thing that took her to the end, But as she lived it. The sheep, the cow, the hen, The birds in air, The men that stride the ocean-wrack, They keep their own chronicles, They keep their own rights, But from the great expanding mind The unborn generations watch To make their chronicles and rights, And for their own sake, These unborn children, we may say, Are her grand-children; They shall have a right to her renown, And shall be helped by her name. They shall not be helped by her shame; Shame is a forerunner of death; Its forerunners are death; Its fourth phase is the terrible thing We call--Corruption. So, if we must have a name For things that help the dead, For things that give a helpmateship, And be forgot, Let it be "Corruption." Because it takes a helpmate's life, But gives no other counter-breaking; It gives the living heart of a man To give the dead a helping hand When they have lost the power to break, And give them a living heart instead When they have lost the power to give; It gives the living heart of a man To give the dead a helping hand, When they have lost the power to break, And give them a living heart instead When they have lost the power to give. Corruption--that name for a thing That gives a helpmate's life To give the dead a helping hand When they have lost the power to break-- It gives the living heart of a man To give the dead a helping hand, When they have lost the power to break, And give them a living heart instead <|endoftext|> In such wise that 'twas most manifest, That the waters of the river made A floud to pour out of the skies, Whence a fog-bank rolled up on high. The sunshine became so fair, That what's called the rainbow seemed to break, With five wild sections. It was clear, Howsoever, that the fifth was vain. "Away!" he said, "a bow is best For certain when the matter's plain. What further hope canst thou harbor Who knoweth not this law?" "Peace!" the knight Shouted, and gave a brave embrace. The sun went down. The last rays kissed The waters blackening, as they fell. The knight espied a forest dim That seemed to mingle with the ground, Where all seemed molded by an hand Of bronze, and shaped by knighthood's skill Of old. It was hard by a wood, Wherein there breathed sweet air, that gave An air more clear than glass or lance, Breathing the virtue of gums and bergamot. Through that dell, and all along its side, Gleamed a fair green light, that gave Of its own grace a mirror clear To the sun's face, that, turning, glowed Like a shield in full array. Then the knight rode on, and passed Away from it on the plain. More bright The forest grew, and fair it grew, And all was full of sounds and dim, As of a bell within some tower, Or, nearer now, than e'er before Heard in a windy tower. At last Came one fair vision to his eyes, Like those other gifts of old; A damsel bright, with golden hair And eyes, like pools in deepest night, And, as they waned, a gold-embroidered robe Lining her body from foot to head. The sight on the knight was so new That he at first took her for a dream, And deemed the dream a real thing, and drew To his breast her face and body long, Till he had cooled them in those hands So long and languorous and pure. At length the maiden's head he caught, And well he knew 'twas his; then he said, "Thou art the maiden, am I sained. I am the Hermit of the Snows, I, loved of Gods and men." "And who art thou?" the maiden said, "And who is that on whom I view Such strange presage of ill, a doom, Yet possible as Idomeneus Could work upon a human heart. Then speak, and tell me, if I may, My peril, and the cause of all That grieves thee." "Thy plight is known, And the great cause of all thy pain," Said Lancelot, "well I know, But thou, if thou wouldst tell me first, The tale of all that grieves thee, Before thou speakest first, or ere I give thee leave." "O Grail-girt One," she said, "Whose desire and task it is To prize each suppliant's claim As worthy of its worth as thine, For one day more in which to put The question, and create one Who shall the light of loving eyes Shall shine within his heart to gaze upon; As once upon a world's lone verge One saw the face of Beauty cleft, And in that star-lit, watery space Watched it grow from shape to shape And flash from joy to joy; so wilt thou, When once thy great quest be thine, Gainst the good will of those folk, These kings and chiefs, who to greet thee, hail, Hail to thy goal! and then, that one day Shall come, that shall at last dispel This dark and lingering doubt thou bearest, Which else would vex thee to thy death, The gentle-hearted knight, thy king, Shall send thee, worn and scarred, Back to thine hall, and thither wend All kings and chiefs who kindly greet thee Hailing thee in their own lands, Greeting thee to thine hall." "Nay," quoth the knight, "nay, not I; For though," he said, "and though I saw My crown set on a doubtful sea, And heard the breakers roar of that Which cannot satisfy the sea, Yet, because our vows are gained, I Shall have the right. Not for us, But for the mercy-seat, the throne Of God, the throne of him whose right Is once lost, cannot be regained; Yet, if the sea should dash his wave Against the rock, and show the crown Set on a doubtful sea, and cast His green waves in irregular shape, Or he should lose the crown, and fall, This were not welcome in my sight, That a man's crown should pass away." "Nay," said she, "but thou shouldst tell That king of yours, when he shall hear That his is lost, what royal state He will dismount from, and relinquish, And go, like some old victor, weeping, To the distant country, and there die. And thou mightest say, in many a story, Which of his sons should last in proud renown, His two brothers, or his four brothers' sons, Or three sisters, or four sisters' sons, And what proud deeds these were of old That made the brothers great, or four sisters That made the queen a lord like precious gold Which none might possess but they alone, And this thyself, that now is wanting great And goodly fame to complete the tale, Which all men know, and wish to know the rest." "Great news," he answered, "have pressed Since thou hast told how thou that king art come." "King Aladine," she said, "hath come in power And lordship, for his noble right divine Hath got him friends through fair Ema's blood. Hath got him friends through fair Ema's blood, Hath chosen her for his queen; for here King Ademare, of noble race became, From strong Tusculan race, a goodly son, Who might the noblest lords of Albion move To love him. His is not that faint a name, But through the isles of Italy he went In pomp and pride, and lordlier wealth than they. "In his good father's hall he has a gift Full rich and costly, clear and fresh, Which of all gifts the crown is most fair, And set in rich gold. Of oxen his Is such a gift as few can show benevolence. Of yoke he has a thousand, of oxen, Such men of strength and courage, none that here May match them. If he shall stay or come To sway our kings, our land shall stand amazed At his gracious gifts, and mighty in his good. "His vassals are four thousand, men of might, Of count and lineage, and they go before Their lord to war. His body guard as lords, With chariots and arms of copper wrought As mighty gifts, and his dead father's arms, Which death may assail, unfaded and white, As is a rose at break of day for bloom, Whiter than foam of waves against the sun. "His body guard as lords, his chariots go With horse and foot, and chariot, fleet and strong, That with these he may be fearless called Upon to ride against the numerous Franks And conquer, and hold the land in fee, Till his proud race shall have grown again Of Trojan seed, and Italian blood. To have such friends and friends so dear, Such comrades dear, his mightier father, Willing shall have and ready be to give. "And that he may be fearless called Upon to ride against the numerous Franks, His trusty friends and kinsmen and charioteers, His body guard are four thousand men, Of count and lineage, and they go before Their lord to war. His vassals are four thousand Men of might, and they go before his chair. His body guard are four thousand men, Of count and lineage, and they go before His lord to war. Then think on these, O king, If thou wouldest hold the land in fee, Till their proud race shall have grown again Of Trojan seed, and Italian blood. "Thou canst not buy with silver and gold A plot of land to hold in fee, And feed thousands, and possess seats Of judgement in the heavens, if the germ Of falsehood be not rooted out of the nation. Then will the Franks rejoice when they behold <|endoftext|> If thou feel'st no wrong, thou dost not know What's plac'd beneath; therefore no one wrong Could ever enter here. But when I pass The portal, that does shut me from thee still, Then I behold with eager gaze All that thou tell'st me, and my soul is stirred With hope to hear and to behold thee more. But if thou should'st shut the gate even of thy voice, And never more disclose to my eyes Thy self and beautiful, I still should hope, Since I can still relate of thee all, That much may yet be learnt of thee, even By me, who do not look for any more At this gate to stand, but am gratefully Parted from thee. Thus, then, I must pursue With not enough words the story I began. First, I the ocean of the inner sea Encounter; and the men who dwell around Returning to their caves, report me dear An angel of the waters, that hath come From God, and made the water dark and bright. Next, to the island come I, where dwelt The man of heavenly merit, who rose Out of his mother's womb superior far To God. Him all the saints, with wonder, mark Risen from the dead, and seated at my side Sitting, as if he fain would speak, there lay. From blood, congeal'd to water by the spirit In virtue given--that is to say, from rust-- Baptiz'd into the tide of age at birth Each impious soul, I purify, and send Into the nature of all things change. Therefore, with all-inform'd faith I purify, And from this tide of blood, each thing combine; Even as the humours of the seasons change Each crop of tree, and wax and wane in on The colours of the year, in heavenly morn Taking its course with fiery spur, I draw From blood and water a purgatorial stream To quench the fevers of all poverty. In this is that rarest gem, the true refill Of wealth, and end of poverty, which far And wide has carried every disease that lurks In human veins, and yet is free from side Borne (as 'tis) with a cancerous load of curse. From hence I draw a tepid spring of health, A spring which in a solitary bay Beach-like, and hard by a temple, sets its feet On noiseless waves, and goes its way with swift Ethereal matter, whence a purer life It supplies to all the district round. Thither my sight the vision face as wide And deep, as would a prospect which Mons Grands Journeys intersect and bounding ensep'rate. Here I behold our continent far spread, And not the Northern half, as elsewhere I see it; here I trace how every sea Rolls to the Arabian; here I note how each Alternate billow forgets his worry, and keeps His good health, and whence he took it, where and when; For not of Greek or Roman philosophy Have I the secrets, which by Phoebus' beam This little isle in sea of life reveals, And which, this year, the fiery beams of February Unfurled, in thy courts, O Petreius! Next, as my tongue goes forth, I note the fates Have plac'd me in Britain's province, where reign A prince, whose piety and whose yoke I bear Less deeply than is my suit by every sense Inclined, more grateful to that prince my own, Whose brief hasn't my deference; here, at least, A bond is nothing greater than the prospect seems, Which makes my more portioned wishes give way. Thence I my prospect further enjoy, and mark How, in this land of plenty, man's heart is bred Irresolute, and how, from hope of gain, Which formerly made men steadfast, they amass Mentennae, which are juggleries and aremes Of deepest wickedness, and what may not The soul, that is habitued to covetiness, Seek for a mark, and for no object take, Save what may move her wonder to adore? Thence the young-eyed Fauns and Nymphs, which approach To steal young beauty, which is lawful thing, Do equally commit outrages, As if they had been equally in fear. There was a man, of whom I tell above He was a Christian, and his God was dear. He had no brother, and no father dead, And a father living, who in life had lov'd That son; and that son's wife, whose love to him In her marriage did perfect his life. And as he liv'd, he lov'd his old content, And kept within his means all his life long: So much that oft, amid his wonted labour, His heavy whelming waves would overflow, And o'er the edge of the wide main be toss'd The raft, whose master into land was brought By hard escape of cracking totters, which he fell Into at once, with all his rogues afield. One of these, of such valour as had much sway Within the camp, and in all strings as well, Was Pole, who had a brother in the Guards, And lately return'd from France, where he had proved His prowess, in all events of battle, And, in the most important point, was chief In all the others of the band, save Prussia's Young champion Vandeput. Pole, the man who brags Among his friends, that he bears not in himself All the hallows of the Holy Ghost, whom He breath'd into him when he burden'd dole In the little ship on the deep of Bizerunt, Could scarce beil-shorted at his setting sail, But, turning back his gloomy face again, To complain of those small wheels which bear the stars, And not at misfortune, was call'd to die. But he, though he came of a noble race, Was not of such low nature, as to beare The common puny nature of the human kind. He had been much in the mint of state, But for his dauntless heart and intrepid heart, Could in the ground be sure to be hardly found. That is, were he found in the smallest band, Nay, should he float alone upon the stream, In a single boat, he could not be in fault. And so the Christian laws ordain'd him to lie Within the boundaries of a State far distant. And here I may remark, that there is a trace Of the Sabine in the manners and the veins Of this brave race, that doth before and succeed The other long-liv'd Romans of the North. His brother Pole was in the employ Of the Count of Flanders, who, it seems, had power To tempt him from the service of his king. Pole, upon this temptatio nave, which of old Was so famous, came to a place, where he spied Vandeput, that in a ship was bound the like. He had with him Pole's wife, Margarita, full wife To Pole, and their little ones; and all the next Generation after theirs in the same boat Came also, with the exception of one more, Which Pole had enjoin'd to wait his coming, nay, Had striven to receive into his keeping new, New to this isle, from other regions far remote. And he bade them land at the port of Modri, And take freight for a-train; and they indeed Did so, and the great Poonooin the elder heard Till dawn of day, and to his brother's ear Did portend the bright morrow, so he took Quite on the confidence of the rising day, And the prospect of a fruitful year to come. And, with this same Poonooin as a guide, Vandeput and his little crew did haul Together to the land, which now they found Was of a natural blueness, and that high Above the mountain crest, on which they past, The soil was all superior to the soil Of the old world, and of such purity. Vandeput, finding soon the latitude just, Upright'd upon a bank, sent his crew aloft, Till to a lofty mountain they arrived. Then, standing on that mountain's top, they spread Sails and tacks outspread, and hoisted up their mast. And thus the captain, as the sea to flight Did with his oars o'er the vale of Modri For ever, saying--"And now our course we have Flied to the bare brow of the mountain, and there <|endoftext|> and wondered why he was so unhappy, and how it was that life, now so unmanageable, seemed to him what one sees when looking at clouds in the summer. At the beginning of the twentieth century a new philosophy of history emerged, which held that life's deepest tragedies cannot be understood except in human terms, cannot be interpreted except by those who have lived them. But life and its tragic myths have a universal power that transcends the language of the times, that transcends the concepts of the nation. At the end of the century you will have seen that the best is yet to be done. <|endoftext|> "I Just Killed a Bunch of Kids", by Heid E. Erdrich [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Race & Ethnicity] For Buddy When the kids were runnin' back from Dorothy's In her little red car There was me in the lead with three on the trail. A eagle didn't change his position for the mighty heat. I could see the trees coming but couldn't see the trees fall. A flock of white gulls swarmed the heat and then turned and flew. I was locked on a white buffalo breaking a black bull's back. All these years I was told a buffalo was the most beautiful of beasts, And here was this flayed hulk come careening after me. And all I could see was white Until I saw the trees And then all was black and now I see the forested land rise up. I see a child in a swing, And he's fast asleep. And the fireflies are dying In the oaks and maples And then I hear him wail. I can hear him wail for hours. There's a hole in the air And a white hand coming down From that cloud of trees. It's getting light now, So light I am, And I might live to see the hand that comes From the cool darkness. I don't want to live. I want to die. <|endoftext|> "The Rain-Maker", by Heid E. Erdrich [Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Religion, The Spiritual] Once a white eagle sat On top of another cloud And made rain—really, really hard As hard as he could. It was cold, it was cold And wet as sin. And a thousand little stars Nodded beside the rain. That was the first time I saw That thing was magic. And then he made more, And soon there was no one left But the white eagles. They sat there on top of the clouds And made all the rain That there is now. <|endoftext|> "The Woman Who Sings at the Edge of Night", by Heid E. Erdrich [Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Weather] Because it is hard to imagine men and women not talking at the edge of night, I decided to make a record of the best conversations I ever had. I told my friend Beth about the deer at dusk toward the canyon, how one would trail its way through the black brush to the bed of an old manzanita, then back, out through the canyons toward home. Beth said she had towers where women sang until the morning, but she had never heard a woman sing that way toward dawn. One winter she saw my friend Debra waken from sleep on the upper floor at dawn and walk to the water in the garage. I knew her then, and before I knew it we were on the river heading for delta land. Debra never spoke of that winter, but she had a story she would tell around campfire after or winter vigil. Then she would sing of the women crossing the Bowery, then jump off into a long song about hope. Now she can only look into the river, wonder how far it is and whether it will take her. <|endoftext|> "The Rat", by Heid E. Erdrich [Relationships, Pets, Nature, Animals, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] The rat is very silent but I never hear him if I am sleeping. The sound he makes is drowned out by my dreams, so I don't know he is here, but I know he is there. I never see him except at night-time. He is so quiet and dark and slow that I never see him anywhere. Sometimes I hear him running in the house around the back where my old ratty rat is in the dryer. I wake up and think it is him and laugh and smile for no reason. He is so quiet and silent I don't know he even lives here. I think maybe he is a spirit possessed of a ghost you can't see who can't be seen. I can hear him around the house at night, but he is a spirit I never see, can't be seen. I think of him on long car trips and in other cities where I never go. He is a long white shape I never see and I don't know he is here. <|endoftext|> "Two Trees", by Heid E. Erdrich [Relationships, Pets] 1 Two trees. One fly. And, now, two trees, fly. A lone shoe. A woman on the sidewalk. No shoes on the sidewalk. A man on a skateboard. No skateboard. A woman on the stairs. No stairs. A small tree. A man on his knee. No man, on his knee. Two trees, fly. A dog barking. A dog barking. A man on his back. No back. A cat running. A cat on the bed. No cat. A hat. A man on his back. No man on his back. <|endoftext|> "West", by Heid E. Erdrich [Living, Health & Illness, The Body, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers] West is hard to live. The easy way out— up—up—up—following the weather as it changes—up—up—following the weather as it changes. No. The easy way out— up—up—up—following the weather as it changes— following the weather— up—up—up—following the weather— up— following the weather— change— following the weather as it changes. Sick. Troubled. Hard to know which one. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. This is how the body knows. No. That's not how it knows. <|endoftext|> "From a Fire-Responding Perspective", by Danzyore TWatts [Living, Life Choices, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Home Life, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] It may be too soon to tell but I think I know what day it is, so far in the daylight away from the hour that always puts me in the thick of things, the neighborhood's usual brouhaha, and the man of the hour so far this day may be my brother setting fire to the yard, splinting and tanking the grass with slurry, wreaking havoc till all is slack, the last hurt leaf falls, then crawling off to reveal a rare fire, perhaps, of which I'm not aware, at best I'm thankful for nothing bad that's happened to me all day, though that's almost always the case today, though that's also almost always the case every day, though that's almost always the case and will likely always be the case for all who are unfortunate to have a victim like me. I think I can forgive and forget because I've done what I can do, though that hasn't been great so far, and now it's time to move on, which is harder, more painful, though it's required, and the more I revise and reevaluate the bigger the gaps and the fewer resources there will be to go around, <|endoftext|> Old Lot, has seen more than his share. 'Tis not the least among his virtues The fear of hell, or fear of God. "There," said he, "thou seest a little heap Of things not worth a fart to laugh at. Thy neighbour's low-necked daughter chortles gay, Her brother is a laughing-stock, And that very clown that gave thee birth Hath done as much or little as he can To shame thy birth and breed, and makes thee mad. "There are, and were, gentlemen that were Mighty lords, and did some good deeds, And now are little lords again. And there, too, doth the same old story hold, And all the long story in a minute tell Of noble deeds and base that men do; For this is the world's eternal joke, That each should be as great as he can. "And this is laughing at our life through; For none will ever have a happy life That acts not for himself every part, And in the world will none be great or prince But he that does that he will do alone, As these good works for these poor lords prove, For if he did not these to do, He would be no great lord in the world." "And this," said he, "is the reason why In all true noble houses you may Find ever none that needs must chide, Or brother bawl, or father cry: And for the rest, the fault is few, But when they are they vex themselves: For all in all, 'tis small merit they boast, That do good deeds that they must not do." "But," said the Queen, "wherefore think'st thou then Thou canst do as thou do'st? thy time is brief, And thou hast done thy work!--but grieve it not, My knight, for that thy praise is great; For though thy labour is but small, It makes a noble long legacy." "And so it is, O Queen," he replied, "Yet little to my purpose I blind: I know that I may not do all That I would in my new estate. But then there's not a king in the land That would not benefit by me: I know my time is short, yet would Do all that I can do in it." "I can thy doing count as little," She said, "if thou dost but take Some small remembrance of thy place, And think of me, my lord, when thou Hast take thy supper in the glen And walk'st in the meadows at night; And, if thou do these things, I will That in my name thou be called The happiest knight that does them both." "I do," he said; "and if thy sight I take of things, take not away My gratitude for thy sweet faith: For well I know, without thine eyes, I could not have done what I have done: Therefore for that I bequeath Thy name to be called next after mine, And love it so that I shall be Another's knight if thou approve." "I do," she said; "and if thy hand Did feel, if pulse, if one heart give way, O'erpowering, mine, I should not hold: For thou being dead, and I alive, What better hope than this for me To firm up, and to strengthen by? And then for thought if thou be still, Thy soul shall teach my heart to swell With love as fierce as that thou didst have." "I do," he said; "and if thy word Did keep, if truth and truth's one be, That which I do, I could not do anrewt: I do for love, and for thy sake, And for those high faire things thou hast said, That never can be past or past, Which shall be stronger than me and mine, Than all the world more bright or more. And for the hope thou didst not say, That shall not leave me till I die." She turned her fair face from the knight, She gave a little cry and went her way, For she was going afoot to her grave, And her fair head with curls unbound; And where she was going, she carent Sweet flowers, and laid her in her grave; And there she loved to dream of the day When he was coming back to her, And of his arms, and of her hair, And of her face, and of her mouth; And when she slept in the night she dreamed Of her true knight, and dreamed the night That she should love him better than All other women had loved before. "O yearning wife, O yearning wife," he cried, "Let not thy heart be full of pain and dread, For other wives may laugh and live, and wear Gold and jewels, and be glad and gay, But thou art sorrowing for thy love, and dead Thy children, and so sadly doing this, That good it is for thee to think of nought But love, and love, and love again: Let not thy heart be full of pain and dread, For other wives may laugh and live; but yet It is not well to live, if love be full, Nor good it is to die, if love be keen; And therefore, wife, come home again, and say That I thy long-lost love have found, and so I am not love's first beginning nor last, And thou shalt have thy love's sum, and we will grow One twain by this love, one twain by this, As leaves meet trees, or waters meet the seas." Then did the lady weep and sorely shake Her lovely head, but still her heart was glad: "O love, O mistress mine, I am so gold, And golden are the trees and the springs, And sweet are the faces of the flowers; But sweeter than all else to my fancy Are those twain roses, the sweet twain bows, The shining grass that enlivens the ground, The murmuring stream that sparkles and flows, And the clear night when I am sitting there Beneath a heaven that is clear and fair And sweet and full of golden stars. O love, O mistress mine, I am dancing A dance with nature, and she sends me Messages and warnings and flowers; And all the while I seem lovelier and glad Than any woman beside, and the heart Of my darling, full of love and delight, Lives in my feet, and it is afraid to stay Where it was, and dare not be as other men, And it longs, and yearns for thee far more Than for the love of any other woman. My heart is sick for thee, and I shall die Ere I have seen thee, or thy love have known, Or on thy brow had written one clasp of thine. "O yearning wife, O yearning wife," he cried, "Do not forget the children and the sheep; Do not forget the Master that was my life, But look into thy heart, and out thereupon Write there, 'His name shall be home-born alive.'" Then did the lady weep sore, but she said not; She looked into her heart, and nothing spake; For she had no word with which to write, And she longed hard as any sheepman to lay Her head against the wayside, and lie dead. But the while she was looking into her heart, The blind night-cloud for a moment did roll From north to south across the holy land, And a great voice from the north did call to her, Saying, "Wife, the night is far spent, Set thy house in order, lest that night go Away with thee." Then the lady rose, And set her house in order, and then she put Her veil about her head, and her hair Covered up, and her jeweled sovereign by, And with a soft and gentle smile she bowed To go into her house. And with her came the husband too And his long lance in his hand, and his heart Bowed down under the load he bore Of his dead love, and in the porch she led Her lord, and after her the silent night Passed, and the morning broke, and with the light Her lords and her friends came in. Then her lordship cried, "Why is it that the night-clouds have covered Our lady's face?" And she said, "O my lord, the night-clouds have come For me, and for my love; for in the night The stars have whispered to me, and I know That thy wife's gone away." So that night Came with its ghostly choir, and stood and sung <|endoftext|> Yet must I tremble when the bright o' the day Wears off, and the moon with its cool radiance, From yonder misty mountain, sinks behind, And o'er the still sea, and dulls the gay sail. Singing beneath a leaf-fringed tree, When Love breathed his soul into my song, And saith the thing that I would say; But could not say it as My own, As one by another taught. Yet am I at her feet tonight Saying what other lips shall sing; And she, with the soul of a child, Smiles down on me, and allows That what I fain would say is Mine, And mine to say! Hath not the May dew rich perfume For the resting lover's couch, Where shall he go from this bright hour? Now the grey dawn flecks the skies; Now the lark is up in the sky, And I alone, alas! Now the nightingale is on the wing, Singeth she her soul-stirring song, And in her clear rippling song Chears up the sad heart of the morn; And on the dewy wild flowers lisps The rose-rose and the white rose. Yet ne'er to my fond heart will come All things sweet as they are now; The blue eyes of the angel eyes Never again shall melt mine. "Blithe soul," she said, and sighed, "Poor slave of Love's unfettered power! No other place beside Mine is the only garden-plot; For if I have not kept the place Dear Love has called my own, A shorter garden-plot I might have made For him who here his lily plants; But, ah! what worth in a lowriding slave, With no long dawn of glory won, To sow where angels sowed no summer-seeds? Where angels planted no winter-seeds, When Love himself from Love broke? "Hearken what Love has said to me-- Have I not knelt at his feet, To give him thanks and kiss his feet? But how can I, poor garden-plot, To please my Lord when I know His garden-plot is one with mine? Alas! the world has grown so cruel Since first poor Adam fell, Since first, ah! first that sad look was sent From Love's shut garden-door to mine. "The rose, the violet, and the lily, They are fair flowers, but they are not As fair as she is; they are pale, Like her who guards the garden-plot. Can you not grow, poor weak-eyed child, To help her and be kind to her? Go, little gardener, weed the wall; For, tho' you may not flower like she, You may strew the little flowers she loves. "And you, dear gardener, if you will, Gardening in her garden, pluck and crush Your little gardener's rose and violet; Pour over the roses, lavishly, The rich brown dirt from off your head; And then, if gardener's love you would, When Love's garden opens to the sun, Piercing upward through its dark-latticed walls, Look, through the wall that she has made, Through Love's dark garden-door into mine. The door creaked, as if in the night A wind had stirred it, and the cold Shadow of the slumberer laid its hand O'er its mechanism; the lock Was done away with, the bolt and key Went missing--was it tossed by a gust Of the strong November air? Or was it, perchance, the goblin-locked Monastery window sweeping the curtain In some sleepy world, in which some head Is bowed in prayer above the Book of Hours? And looking out, as from the window, Glimmered a form that stood In prayer--but, ah! what was that whiteness, What were those pinions wrought in whiteness, From the wings of a fairy who perched In heaven's pure air? A form that was not heavenly, nor a fairy, But as human who walks the air, Striving, perhaps, to rise from the earth Toward the pure track of the angels--and failed. I, seeing that there was no retreat From the wild knowledge that I had failed, With a deep hunger came to the Wild, And a deep thirst to know what dies After life--what fate awaits us there: What lies beyond? And a wave of the Imagination Flowed with me to the Wild, Whence I could not turn! Some day I shall ride on the sea, And a harper shall play to me Some strange old song of the West, When o'er his clear quivering reed Sails the dark storm-cloud of the sea, And, as the sea-bird alights On its rising, a death-like swoon Floats the lone mariner down To the wild breast of the sea! I, picturing these things, I sat, And my life was as the brief day Of the last summer ere Summer dies-- The mirage away! And I shall have died, I, as I so wist That my life was but the day of the last Summer ere Summer dies-- I, picturing these things, I sat. O, I could drink your life up through and through With a great golden draught of the War, And, while I thirsted, I should see myself Cover all the sea with your flag-coats of blood, And you trodden to death in the fields of death! I could know that the years go over merrily, That Death is King, and the brave is a fool, And that War is a joyous thing and a glad, And the young boys should cry for joy, and the old Be stern and forbidding, and the clang of swords Round your throat--and the clang of joy is the clang Of love and the strength of the strength of the world, And you drown in the sea of it all, and I Drown in the stream of the war--and this draught Would be drunk of it, and I know it, and you Know it, O War-god! THERE is a land up beyond the sea Where the surf turns a golden sea-gull's nest, And the sands bleed with pearls beneath the sea-- There is a place called Paradise. I have ridden on the backs of the surf Down to the golden sea-gulls' nesting place, And I have seen the sands at their feet Bleed with pearls as the surf went past. They turn white with the blood of me, And they laugh at the terrible silence That holds them in the fathomless place-- They laugh and sing with a merry rhyme, "Oh, here is Paradise!" They cry to me as I pass by "Oh, here is Paradise!" They cry and tramp through the summer sea, They dance on the dark, still flood-- They laugh at the water-dogs that prey For the fish that flash and flash by, They make a song to the silver sea That tells of the golden sea-- They tell of the home of the blessed ones, That live forever in the sea-- And I leave them to the fates and die. THE sea and the sky and the land Were once like jewels to me, For they were bright and pure as love, As true as fate and fate's dread decree. The sea sang songs of joy to the sky, The sky rolled down its breezes soft, The land was wet with the tears of me, For I was happy up there, but death Is sweeter than sleep and the grave. THE sea and the sky and the land Were once like jewels to me; The laughter of the sea, the sun And rainbows in the sky; But the vain love of the sea and sky And the delight of the rain Are dead since the day I lost you. Oh, you have been dead long enough. The sea has hidden in his waves The laughter of the sky and the sun; And the night winds sigh o'er the land But say not "Peace and joy!" no more They sing to each other, "Oh, you are dead! Oh, you are dead long ago!" I had no land of my own, No hut and hearth and home, And so I made of life a walk Through fields of wonder, all alone. I sang my songs to the sun And the great high woods and streams; I dreamed and dreamed, with eyes a-blur At mirages good and ill. I followed in the wake of youth, <|endoftext|> From thy man-woman to this meanest thing That would but say the lowest, faintest thing, That might but wink at the highest, purest thing. Woe is thee, thrice-victorious one! Woe is thee, lover-wise and brave! Thy might hath been to bear and twist And gird the world and govern it well, And to thy Son the lowest thing was still A rebellious throng to be suborned To serve, and to his Father's cost. What art thou now? O poverty, Thou base-born, little thing that art! Now wilt thou drink the brooks and talk with kings? Now feel the sun upon thine eyes and hair? Now see the seed-faces of the spring? Now smell the fragrance of the pine? Or in the house-roofs caress and sleep? Nay, thou hast had thine enjoyments: Thy poor fare nor busy life, Thy childish pastimes, too bold, Thy loves that proved too strong, Thy revels, and thy feasts of wine, Thy coms from many a distant land, And this sweet sweet little child that snatches Thy inmost soul, to share and keep it. O mother dear! O father! grieve not That the God that made them leave them thus; Nor blame thou them the world's misuse; Thou hast no knowledg of their fearful past; But see thine own sweet child that sheds Such tender tears for lost ones that are no more. In the old dwelling place The happy ones love to linger, To feed on warmth and cheerfulness And rest when any sorrows shake The deep rest of sleep: And the flowers of memory blow Above the happy place, The happy ones love to dwell on. The happy ones love to linger By the roses of memory, By the dreams of childhood, And oft in years to come To fold with happy love The remnant of their clay. I know a little place where the flowers blow In the old dwelling place; Where the leaves of many a lovely tree Wind as they were shod, And echo with the happy song From merry morn till night; And there are visions at night to cheer The heart when day is done. There in the old old dwelling place There is no pain or care; No sorrow ever speaks to us there, No strife or anger: In the old old dwelling place Let us take our last farewell; Say the "I love you" from the rosy flower Where the happy ones love to linger, To feed on warmth and cheerfulness And rest when any sorrows shake The deep rest of sleep. The flowers of memory blow Above the happy place, The happy ones love to dwell on. Where the river dreams and wanders In the old, old garden place; Where the lilies high in air Keep forever their lovely wreaths, And never fade or rot; There is no work to do or plan to plan, There is never strife or tear. Where the happy ones dwell In the old, old dwelling place, They have no thoughts to vex or to harass The rest of life: No vain resentments to sustain, No vain anxieties to feed, They have their sleep and their peace. Let us take the road of remembrance Through the lovely garden place; Let the heart be with those who are gone In the old, old dwelling place; For the journey of remembrance is sweet When it brings those loved who are gone. Come to the little garden place, Where the river wanders and sings; Where the lilies high in air Keep forever their lovely wreaths, And never fade or rot; There is rest for the weary and strong, For the weary and strong. To the little garden place, Come we from the weary world, Where strife and the struggle are rife, And the cross bars the way of the soul; Come we from the weary world, Where care and sorrow stalk, Come we to the little garden place Where the happy ones dwell. Come to the little garden place, Where the old life ended is, And the new begins every where, Peace, and joy, and content, and love; For the guide of the spirit yet Is Jesus Christ; yes, and life, With all its cares and its fears. So we shall come to the little garden place With the sun shining high, And the sweet flowers of Heaven bending low, In the old life's completion, And the tears of the Angels in our eyes, As we turn from the store Of our little garden place, Where we love and are loved. O leave thy store Of the world's wealth, For the little garden place, Where we are loved! No selfishness reigns; We count it not A little garden place, Where we are loved. Let us count it our treasure Of good things given, That we may keep it safe and secure, Unto the end, And inherit it safe and sure In the little garden place, Where we are loved. So we shall live our little life through, In the little garden place; Let no thought of the world interpose Till to-morrow; If our eyes be dim, Let their light not wane; But with faith as with clear sky, We shall see to-morrow. My little Love, my dear, For the momentary bliss Of your tender joys and fears, I will pay a debt Lent to my mood by telling The tale of a little tree. When first my Gimbel-ani Jumper I taught The art of the fern-leaf to fly, She rolled it round so gently, I had not known it alive, But swept it in a swift casual wind As straight as a line. And as, at my command, Its slender stalk bent under, Then it spread in an arching scroll From root to top, So, all unaware, shook down Its shadow on the bed. I picked the leaf up, And, in a careless way, I spread it o'er my face, But as I put it slowly back I saw beneath it A charm so faint, so changeful, I sat and wept. The sun was up, and laughing birds Did chant and chime; The mountain breeze did fill The valley air with hum; And the tall cottage-towers looked down A hundred feet into the trees, And shook their heads, With rosy fingers, at that home Where nothing changed. And all the lonesome hours were there With no one there, Save two young watches, like new-born chicks, That sang in their nests. The roses, at my feet, Out-breathed their sighs; And, on my bosom, lay A purple, little flower. And I said to it, "How strange a thing A scythe has made of us! It tills the ground, it wreathes its hoary head, It wins its crowns and garlands and applause; And I, who have studied all my life The theory of rhetoric, I have done nothing but go about To chap my boughs and flowers. And yet, in this end of the world, I find Nothing else to do but prattle and chaunt And spread my teachings all about. My prattle--it all comes back, dear, to you: And now I find, to my horror and joy, That I have taught the thing I taught. The things I preached I mean to do! For it's growing autumn now, and so The apples are falling and the bees Are humming, hush! They are gathering on the barberry-bells, And it's bedtime. The night draws near, and all the ways Are choked with bramble. The bumble-bee has lost its necklace, The stars are gone, And I must go. It is late. I must go. My flowers, adieu!" And as she spoke, A velvet fog, rolled down From cloud to cloud, Went sweeping over me. I felt it come, And saw the bees in a weft of light, As though they weighed the stars with honey, And that I'd been a light to their eyes. My leaves are falling, and my trees are falling; The cuckoo has ceased to call, The night draws near. I must go. The bees hum in a weft of light, And I must go. And when I came to, I saw the trees, And all my study walls and carvings, And all the flowers I had measured and planned All over comepotted; and I said, <|endoftext|> The Summer rose, that crown'd my labours, died. The once gay motes are withered dry; The frost-wind from the cloud did moan and wail. And you, sweet Jesu! whose love gave me Stately to rear the cedar and the vine, Wherefrom ye harvest my demeaning blood, A poor mourn'd widow sitting in your shade. Come, Lady of Shalott! While yet the starlight brightens at the sky And still thy sleep is over me, Come, see how bright my Ulster's stream Glows, how my mountain-abyss deep Sleeps, when the wanderer seeks his home! There let him rest, till morning's beam Lifts all the horrid streams that swell Ireland's deep gulf of gloom: And the wanderer comes, and, weary, Deeply must weep. Ah! cruel God! My heart is dead, whilst these live on Whilst live, the King of Miseries! Peace, O Lord! by the clefteth, And the swift-rushing floods! Peace, Lord of Heaven! by the earth Smitten, and smitten deep, Break, O Lord, into a thousand pieces; Tread under foot! Deep is the sleep, deep the sorrow, Deep as the dead somnolence, Where all that's borne and borne and borne Grows as chaff that will not work The weevils of the earth. Then to his oozy bed they sank The six hundred! yes, twelve hundred Clay-clad feet beneath the raw world's sod; The high priest hobbled o'er the sod To bless their bed. And round the bend Where stands the Black Bull, they knelt them there; For they could totter no more. "O my dear, my dearest, hie thee away! Thy Mother sends, ah, wilt thou stay? Sweet baby, must thou cut this clay? Sweet baby, wilt thou cut this clay? Sweet baby, wilt thou shut thy eyes? Sweet baby, wilt thou shut thy eyes? "O my dearest, my sweetest, leave The hills, the hills to her! hie thee away! Go to the brook! go! Sweet baby dear! Go to the greenwood, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go!" "The hills are silent; silent are they, The hills, my baby dear! Silent, like thee; hie thee, I pray, To thy mother! Sweet baby dear! Go to the greenwood, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear! Go! Sweet baby, go! Sweet baby dear!" There was a hillock on the Black Bull That looked on to Derry Down; There was a cross in a coppice by Where half the Black Bull slopes; And some old men used to talk about A man that was lost there. A few cornfields blinked in the sun, And there where the High Street drains An old soldier kept, in his room, A little book, of pasted-white covers, Of the deeds of boys that were good at fighting, And brave at trading. He read: "The house of Eshcol fell On Thursday, July the second: Capt. Eddie Golden was the man That drove off with the plunder cab, The prize of the day. "But, after all he made but small: His ship went south with many a trip: And much he earned, and drank and ate, And slept in barracks; where he grew To be a man of twenty-two. He learned the ways of men: And now he wonders where he is." Then quiet fell. The daylight passed, And darkness had its standard there. The cross was down. No light was seen From windows set in bunks: The door-way glowed; and then was gone The hillock's cross of white. Then, like a light, one candle fell From the window, lit and then stayed; The cross was gone from the door; The cornfields closed over one: The lone candle's soul went home, With eyes that saw far off, beyond The lonely bough, the time when men Felt hope and courage for the world's needs. Down by the water Lightly we trot Through the turn-round, The High Rocks before us, The wind has ceased to moan, The bay is fine. It's time to say We're home again, we're home again, The sands are black. What have I gotten myself Into this tangle? A hard old world to shake; An exile's sceptre to shake; A world that makes no promise, And delays fulfillment; And yet, when roused once more, Proves at my hands again Its long-desired hand, its full Strength of command. Why is it, when I am set, When the heat's upon me, The flood-tide's stirred me, My spirit should be shorn By a foul neglect, Or worse, to sickly laxness? What have I gotten myself Into this tangle? Why do I need keep pace With the spirit's lagging, And stave off want with prayer, That the race may not be run? What have I gotten myself Into this tangle? A swallow feather to take, As wing to seek a mate, Is all the world to me And my soul's content. My name's John Barry, I've got gold and I want it, And I've got the world to give To get it right from the start. A world's a small affair, Though we be little men, When our lives the whole earth owns And our own whale-boat rides. The globe's a passing jest, The soil's a bountiful plot, A man may be poor indeed, But he'll never be old. No man may slay a hog, No man may chase the shark, No man may carry a musket, No man may fight a battle; But he may kiss a maid, And lean against a wall, And watch the world go by. So let me go to sleep; I'll dream that all is well, For there's a better thing Than the doctors can tell: And there's a better rest Than the body's pain, And a finer glory than fight Or the trouble of strife: I'll dream that all is well. In the grave's twilight You shall not see a soldier; But sometimes a peddler Comes out on the narrow Bridge of the Head of Samuel, Out of the din of noon, Out of the din of four, Out of the din of ten. He hears the city's hum, He hears his neighbours' talk, And over his head the river Swells and trembles and moans. Out on the river side Comes a merrier crowd, And they talk and they laugh and they cry, And they run and they run. I hear them talk, I hear them call: "How lovely is our village! Down the road so small and neat, Near the sea, where the people Look as gay as we do. God bless them in their streets, I've got a wife and infant child; And the weather's soured me, I know; And the people by the sea Look grayer than ever, For the wind's up and pale and cold, And the rain's down and rain. It's queer, I confess, the things People say when you are dead; But I don't care. I've told them All I know. So I may Remain as I am, quiet, In a moment, out of sight." So he crossed the Bridge of the Head, And the rest he did as he said, Dropped into his house of clay, And at last he slept sound. But the people on the river Went on and on and on, And they talked and they laughed and they cried, And they ran and they ran. The footlights shone, and the concert Filled the market with noise. But down in his cell, alone, The poor delver, Keir, He had put aside his pipe, And he slept and watched the stars. The lamp was smashed; but not from cold; (A habit he'd acquired, From an old Master he'd acquired, And a service he'd done;) And he left it as it lay, And he stole away to think. <|endoftext|> Till the red flame in his brain Is as yellow light, As the roar of the lion is to the hound. So with all the unruly Will That roams unrestrained in my heart, The struggle that long must be, While the demons of old time abide, I say--this strife is the end of me; That nevermore, Not under sun or shower, Shall the red flame in my brain Roar as it did in the days of yore. The thing I long for Is not some wrought ideal, Or a long gold chain to bind me, Or even a beautiful book. But a voice that speaks in me Whose tone is as mild as the murmur Of streams when they pass down a hill; A hand that works and feels, And hovers in the air like the dove of peace. The thing I long for Is not some made-up dream, Or a faded dream to be cast aside, But the stirring of a present joy, The gathering of a pastime, The setting of a dream. It is the thread and the knitting Of life, the joining of soul with soul, That makes me so weak and faint That all day long in my heart I but cast away The things that are. And then in my soul, all day long, All through, comes that blessed voice That whispers of what must be. How far beneath me seems the earth! Does she know That in my restless unrest, In the harshnesses and the pangs Of this long, aimless striving, She might learn of her true home, How close the land is to her heart, And what a precious thing it is, Her very own, the heart of the land! Heart of the land! Land's heart! What word can answer for thee? Land's life! land's love! land's doom! What words but another word Hanging modulate and frail, The dread of thy lips, the toning Of thy calm speech, the thread Of thy destiny spun To weave thy future to-day? I see a sea, a mighty sea, With far-stretching shores, And white-wrought vessels stemming its strength, And sailing from afar; And I behold a people beset By selfishness and need, Who hear the mighty voice of the sea And obey its voice, All for the glory of God and the good Of their blue-pruned waters and their land. Heart of the land! Land's heart! What word can answer for thee? Land's life! land's love! land's doom! What word but some tuned synonym Of thy proud and prouder name? A people tamely great and wise, Who tamely give their hearts, And patiently to the mighty sea Their souls bend, And weave a dim draught to soothe their pain Until they reach their home at last. One word! and the harsh word outruns The land, and sounds afar Like the sea when winds are stirred. I hear it resound afar, A echo of the call of John. I hear it, and I cry out, O blessed Land's heart! O blessed land! A word in answer gives, And the whole earth's heart beats with mine. Dear Land's Heart! Dear land's heart! I hear thy rejoicing call; I hear thy welcome cry, I hear thy glad rejoicings tell, Dear land's heart! Dear land's heart! O sweet delight of welcome cries! And all the earth's noise sounds sweet To me as I am bound to thee. And the dark bent eyes of Fate Behind a frowning screen, Have seen me wandering here, An outcast like the outcasts, Saw me as I might be; And now my feet have found Thy very own at last, And, like a spirit, I go Back to my home at last. And the dark eyes of Fate Are never bent again, For I have found my way Home at last. And I go Back to my home at last. And I am home at last, And I go to my mother, And with trembling lips and wild, And wet eyes, and eager breath, I tell her all my dream; And I look on her face, And she smiles on me, And from her eyes the wild Wild joy of her home in me Passeth, and I come at last To my own home at last. From our far homesteads, where we hark To the watchman on the mountebank's wan lips, Or down by the dark thin seaman's dingy face In the great boat that halts on any wharf As we skim the dark sea where the fish-boats go, From the high North a voice is raising now Beyond the dark walls that guard our home: Gone are the days when the enemy,-- Who for centuries haunted our forests, Walled us in, and stole our shepherds, Stole our wise men, our art men, our princes, And left us with ruins of our glory, Till now, at last, we are coming together, Gathering once more under one standard, Shrinking from our enemies' sneer and sneer! And what is our pride? The world's grey dust, The world's rust and rusted steel. Come, comrades, come, we are growing old, For we have seen the long-sought days of which All our history and all our dream has sung. And the sword rings down the age! For one by one we are falling, falling, Falling as falls the golden city That building builds for God alone; Till, all complete, in the last eclipse, We reach the seventh heavens, and see The marvel of our building's mystery. Like as the sea is in the heart of a rock, So is the spirit in a noble mind. Like as the sea's in the red heart of a thorn, So is the strength in a stout-hearted man. Like as the soul's in the brave, obedient heart Of one steadfast ever to come and never yet To go, till God's will is done upon the face Of the globe; so is our love's full worth weighed, As the rocks' and the thorns' and the sea's in ours. I ask not what thy thought may be, nor yet What thy work shall be; Only tell me what thou art, And leave me to mine! I know that I know thee not, Nor know that I am dear; Yet give me some small sign That thou art that whom I know, And that my heart doth warm With some new kind of love For thee in thine own land; Give me some little sign That the past is dead, and all its ills past, And that the present and the years to be Are not as other years, but sweeter years, Made sweeter by some word, or thought said. Or a tune from out our land's strong harmony, With its big bold notes set free, Forth ringing from the cymbals' clash, Forth ringing from the zither's twang, To the musically-whispered measure, And the grand, unwritten rhymes. Or the rhythm of some simple song, That hath no hope of change, Hushingly and slowly recurring To the same tune year by year, As the winter becomes autumn, As the summer changes. Some tune of wandering Ruine, Some province-composite, Some simple, smooth, and stately, Lovely hymn of our southland. Sing it with the wind's music Through the sound of our cities, Of our lakes and rivers, Of our pine forests and uplands, Of our big sun-warmed cities And their light-lain shadows. Sing it with the light wind's minstrelsy, Over the city-trees, Over the spot where the sun hath turned In the valley of our towns, Over the little houses Of our couples, wed each year To the spring's new light. Sing it with the rushing of water, The whirlpool of our rivers, Of our torrents that leap with laughter To the spurt of our sportsmen; Sing it, if thou canst, With thy songs of love, Laid no mean chord-note to capture, As a slave might capture Some big noble theme, But with such fire and poignancy, Such hope, and such soul as ours, Sing it in perfect song! Sing it, but take not from us The hope and the poignard; On our children and our children's children Put not yet this sense of loss; Give us not yet a sense <|endoftext|> Though you would have me know it, I've known the worse in women than you. You know that a woman's say in a man's marriage Lasts a life time, unless he's a bastard, Or a dead man, or if one of the two Should have a will and chuse a wife for him. So when one of those two fat fellows In a great passion gripes you and says That you must marry him or her, say, "By all the stars I will not marry you," And for good or for evil You must obey, or die. And what does the other one say? Well, he may have a will, too. But I'll marry you, or I'll die. And what does he say? He may have a will, too, But I've a gun And you have not. In a hollow tree My love and I have made A nest for the making; She's a woman hard and tall With a brown face like a bean, And a tawny mane Blown round her merry round head. And her tender little hand Is the sweetest little hand That ever trod. Her eyes are wise and dark, Like a goodly pair o' long blue; Her dimpled, drowsy chin Is the whisker o' meekest me. Her brow is ruddy like the rose; Her dark, wet curls are the gold That lies in the nest. When she talks to me I listen With a hawkat small time; I hang on her lips like a bird Of toucht a breeze and then off I fly. My heart goes with her in her feather Of silken feather, in winged flight Up to the tree. Our talk is sweet and soft, Like a hope in the rose; The girl that I love and have known Fifteen years or more Is a flower I would swear Was never seen before. Our talk is sweet and soft As a sappy down Of a quiet, warm day; And a rosebud's promise of long ago Comes to me in a dream, Of a time and a place, When we were young. And I run to catch it all-- The fair lost thing, the nest! But my heart goes with her in her winged flight Up to the tree. And I see her talking to the tree As she holds its nest. And what do I say? The time and the place Have been so long with me They seem like a dream with a foamy tongue That beckons and goes away. I shall think them sweet dreams no more. For I am one that is born. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. My darling is a rooster That crows at break of day; And my darling is a rooster That crows in the dusk of eve. The morning mist is gone From the grassy meads, Where early roisins rose In rosier hues Than those the sky forsaken Sheathed in solemn gray. But roses, precious roses, In vials of pearl From earth are taken-- Drops of undying dew That scent the earth no more. From vase to vial, drop by drop, All that were delicate In earth, though rare, have fallen; The shrines of light are gray; And angels have forgotten Where they left their lilies. From vase to vial, drop by drop, All that were delicate In earth, have fallen; And sweet their fragrant sojourn In earth's dim desolate place. Ah, they would have forgotten, And longed for us no more! But we have loved them with All our love, and kept them As the sweet memory keeps The song of the blessed birds That fill the airy sky, We knew them smiling, they knew us, As one might know a former friend; And tenderly the maids whom we loved Would kiss us in the children's place. But now in that eternal silent place, We sigh and murmur and wait With heart's subdued hum And yielding eye, to go. The first voice that came from us, Like a merry Christmas bell, Told of their glad and faithful beards That had flourished underneath The beeches of Paradise. They knew us by our gentle greetings, And how we loved their happy hunting, And all the tender joys that brought. And they were happy, young and old; We gave them all the finest flowers That the field bore; We told them how the hunt was laid To order, and the hounds were brought In a soft, bright train, and circled By a handsome old fellow dressed In a coat of snowy gray, And golden haughty hair, And gentle eyes of blue. Then, drawing-roomward, I set A gladsome light to burn, And a fine red rag to spread, That they might have their cheer, And smile at me, as I read The lovely news from far And I went through the sleepy village, And through the valley's dim blue haze, With nothing but a mellow boure And a sweet, bright lute for accompaniment. But what a glory seemed it To sit in the silent gallery For a space with my Lord Byron, And catch the music of his late-born song Come soaring over hyacinths and violets In that old Gothic cathedral, With its domes of turning violet And towers all a-thrill With rich, rich colors, And colors in the dome! And I thought of that azure dome, That cathedral's dome, With one star for each of the rainbow's colors, And every one a beacon light. And the star on the altar in my heart Saw a pure white Holy Child, And in the happy air of night, That altar star saw another child, And in the child it answered: Peace; And I knew that my Lord Byron Knew what he was doing, And he sang of glorious battles That gave us our great Queen Bess; And he sang of the marvellous things That Tintoretto did for beauty; And the most of the Holy City He sang was Holy Saturday, In the glorious name of the Lord, And, as he sang, a holy voice Called out: "I am holy, I am pure, I come from the right God, And I sing in the heavenly name of the Lord, And in the holy Saviour's name!" And I, with many an ardent look And prayerful look, Was listening to the sound of music, And I thought, while I heard the music, That the song of the Lord God, And the chant of the angels, Had a music of their own, That only the spirit e'er could conceive, And only the spirit e'er could sing. Then, as I looked with eager eyes Upon the living pictures hanging there, That called to me as angels calling to me, All the sweet tales of love and delight, All the thoughts of my youth flitting through them, All the loves, and dear, dear remembrances, That formed my heart, I thought: "Oh, this is the sweet life, This life of love with its dreams and desires; And the sweet thoughts, that flitting through it, Only bear witness, To come, As in the golden days of youth, To die in the perfect cross of Christ." Then I saw the picture of my poor heart In that old church, that day, at Whitby, Sitting alone in that part of the aisle, And a shadow seemed to fall over it, And a hushing calm on all the crowd Of the faithful and of the believing, As it quietly passed from that part of the aisle. Then a hand glided over the cross, And a voice murmured, low and sweet, "You are that one whom I wanted always, Always, Margaret, and I am glad. You are that one whom I loved ever, <|endoftext|> For in vain my soul is placed Where beauty only appears Beneath the solitary moon. O heart of mine, untired and still, Rest ever, ever; for thy rest Come from thy dwelling-place, and pass Silently and gently by the bier Where joys like thine once met his face. O love, they cannot take from thee One jot of all that thou hast taught me: To love beneath the light that shines From that large heart in which thou art blessed; To love with all the pure of soul Whose spirit doth impel thee on. In heaven's own temple, where none else But HE and I with him have entered, Through those dark archways I must go When I my place have fulfilled. But let me first the holy matting Trow under th'owed archway, and when I go upon my solemn errand Look with thy help upon me. There was a little golden key, Just large enough to fit about My finger as I took it forth; I unlocked the door of my heart's chambre, I looked within its most secret shrine, And in one moment there was revealed The mystery of all my grief and love. I found the love that I denied; I saw the truth that I had kept For you in falsehood's highest degree: The sun of my life was quenched And all the lustre of my life Set to ebonness in the tomb. I found a wan and broken lamp, The light of a life forlorn, And all the old perfume of romance In the dark sphere of death was lost. There was no strength in my hands to touch My lovers, dead and chill with dread, Or speak to them in words of life. I looked upon the face of my dead, And it was against my trembling knees That their white lips met and past; I tried to seize the hand that I loved, But a cold fear came on me like frost Before the dying hand was wholly dead. The love that I had come to claim Is cold and lost like the moth's seed, Or the white seed of a lily, Or a snowdrop, bloom of the field, That would be bloom of the world indeed. And on that shadowed threshold now Where once my love and I had stood, With trembling lips and heavy eyes, I saw two figures in the gloom, Two eyes I had seen before, Two eyes that spoke to me of life, And I knew that I must go. I went, and a strange thought struck me, And I went, and I said, "Ah, this Is the secret of my life and death, To go where I will, to any gate, And look in th' eyes of those that wait." I went, and a strange thought struck me, And I went, and I said, "Ah, this Is the secret of my life and death." I went, and I knew that in the eyes Of all that I had loved and lost There was but one bright glance that shone, And that was the glance of my love to me; And as I looked in th' eyes of that night Of two souls meeting in the dark, I knew that I must go. Ah! there was one who was not there Whose smile could make my heart rejoice, Whose kiss could make my lips remember, Whose words could tell of deeper love Than the pale starbeam may. It was not Silence that I saw Behind the cedar, but Love. Ah! there was one whose gentle hand Could make mine own despair; Who walked with drooping head and breast, And never raised them to my gaze, But held her veil aloft and said Slowly, "It is you." It was not Silence that I saw Behind the cedar, but Love. Ah! there was one whose kiss could make My heart's blood frosty cold, Who walked with drooping head and breast, And never raised them to my gaze, But held her veil aloft and said Slowly, "It is you." It was not Silence that I saw Behind the cedar, but Love. He stands in the chamber where you lay, And the tears in his eyes are cold, For the time is come when he must go And leave you alone alone; But remember, forget me not, And don't grieve so for my sake, And one day we will meet again, And one day we will part. When in the springtime first thou met me, It was not in the temple of Truth With ideal beauties to your feet, But in a garden where love was. Love was not then the idol of speech, And thought was not in thy flowery citadel, But pleasure was thy roof and only defense, And I was but a glad-hearted gardener. When in the springtime thou didst blush for me, It was not because thou thoughtest me too meek To win the love thou soughtest to win; But thou didst know the secret of the flower, And watched its budding, and it opened in thy heart, And there the dearest flower was thine. And for love I knew the dearest in the end. Then in the summertime thou didst come to me To share the pleasures that the world had to offer, And in the evening, lying on the flowery bed, Thou didst beg me for a word, and I gave it to thee, And I awoke in the morning and thy answer was "Yes," And now in the wintertime thou camest to me, And I gave thee the flower my heart held dearest, And now thy answer is "No," and the last word I heard Was, "Lamb of my life, would God I might have thee die, And at the resurrection, as thy heart desires, Reach the fine golden door and meet thee in the street." Love, how beautiful is the morning! There comes a grace in the early light, The wimpling dawn, the gleaming air, That suggests the starry dawn of morn When, bathed in the radiant glow, Man's spirit shall rise like the morn From out the dust it has so long drained. Ah! that same marvellous beauty befits The soul that on its wings of light hath birth, When the young spirit is on love's high barges led, And upward drives on through the azure West. Ah! that same marvellous beauty befits The soul that follows the love that makes it great. Love is the wave,--the boat,--the ark; The ark, the ark, the power divine; The wave, the boat, unto all exiles long lost; The power divine, for love is life divine; The wave, the boat, the ark! Love is the wave;--the boat,--the power divine; The ark, the ark, the ark; Love is the wave,--the boat,--the ark. The ark, the ark, the ark. All things in need of Love's blessing yet Are weaker than those that scorn his aid; Men, in their stubbornness, will want his care, And toils and troubles will vex him at the best, But love, which only cares for me, will find And make all things safe and happy still. All things in need of Love's blessing yet Are weaker than those that scorn his care; To those that love and are beloved he Will want his care and only care will want; And he will so enrich them and so please That they will want no care from out his hand. And I too, through love, shall need his care, And he shall so bless and so please me That, while I'm underiest, he shall be Excelling most of every other man. And if the best I can manage to be He'll manage to be the best of any; And, being so good, why, the best I shall. He says he's my friend, and I believe him; He seems so kind and loving sometimes; And then he snaps, as if he had eaten something That disgusted him, and he says he's sorry And can't live half way about again; And then he snaps again, as if the last Words had never been spoken, and he's angry And can't wait to get back to his real life. All his life, from birth, have I taught him To take what was a kindness and turn it Into a help and keep it there to cling; To be careful what he says and care, To give freely and not store things; And to look into the faces Of all he talks to and for And not to take anything at all <|endoftext|> It was a tiny winged flight And the little raven was happy And I was happy, happy, happy As I lay in the warm grass Not caring whether I was dreaming or awake I felt my dear one quivering Her little feet sticking in the grass Her arms outspread She lay there and smiled She had never been away from me She would come back to me For there was a Queen I knew her as a little child I loved her as my own For she was so light Her hair was like a gift in the wind And her face Was calm and pure as the clouds are And wise were her eyes They seemed to know all things And all things did they know And all things will they know And her crown Was bright as a star in the sky And her people were very wise Her eyes were happy Her head was bowed in content As she sat there and smiled In the cool woods a Summer's day How happy were the bees They hung about the Buttercup And gamboled among the flowers They sang, they sang A little at her feet And a little on her brow But they did not come to her face They did not come They came down to me And they fluttered on my hair I am the only lover that she knows I am the only god she worships She comes not to me She comes not to me She comes not to me When the autumn winds are blowing low Over the grass and the flowers She will come to me She will come to me She will come to me She will come to me Under the enchanted moonlight We will walk in the dainty ways We will lie down together On the golden alike sides of a bed She will be so very gentle to me She will be so very gentle to me She will be so very gentle to me The new young moon in the purple night Has turned to a golden star The new year is born in the old year's birth The wind is singing in the garden again The leaves are falling in the forgotten garden The new year is born in the old year's birth The wind is singing in the garden again There was never a black cloud in the sky For our father there on the Indian hill There was never a black cloud in the sky There was never a drop to drain or thirst There was never a cloud to fall or snow There was never a breath to sigh or ails There was never a hope to ease or cheer For he came not out of the sky to us For there was never a black cloud in the sky There was never a cloud to fall or snow There was never hope to ease or cheer For he came not out of the sky to us It was not as some have come who came in pomp Or high emprise and spoke of being King It was a beggar with a crust of bread in his hand It was not as some have come who spoke of being King It was a beggar with a crust of bread in his hand It was not as some have come who spoke of being King For the King may be a gentleman and good And the people may be far in earnest in their love But to us he is a name like any other trade For the King may be a gentleman and good And the people may be far in earnest in their love A friend of my brother's lives over the way And he takes a morning shot At a fifty caliber gun That is chambered in .32 caliber rimfire That is smooth-feeding and top-break With a safety lock and an elevation step And a safe lock and an aperture. He has spent the night below in his little hut With his little Schmidt rifle That has a special arrangement for windage and elevation And a tracer rate of fire. So a friend of my brother's comes riding up that hill With his little Schmidt rifle That has a safety lock and an aperture And a special rate of fire. He has fired it with every kind of bullet That are full of edge and hardness and have a lightness of weight And he aims it and pulls the trigger and locks the bolt back And the groans and groaning grows into a sob for he knows That the groaning of the inadequate Must be shot out of the story For the friend of his brother's life Must be shot out of the story And he has put a track of lead Through the softest clay that is brown and green And he has crossed it with a spade and a bulldozer's wheelbarrow And he has sent a telegram to his old wife in Ohio That is lying under the house that they built by the river And he has written her this message on a post-office receipt: Dear Mrs. Haplyshire, I love you and I want to make you proud. I have asked the people in Elko to build me a house And they have made it a hotel with a restaurant on the ground. I am staying there, so keep the cameras out. I want to be the head waiter in the place. They are making me an offer that I cannot refuse. They say that my father and his brothers were cowards. I want to be a good citizen and to serve the public. I have a son that is a junior captain in the army And he told me that he has been offered a place in the army In the 382d Infantry. I have a little place out in Guadalcanal Where I am going to school. There is a telegraph office that is in my way. I am trying to be a good citizen. I am willing to work. I do not want the world to think that I am doing it To be a great soldier. I want to live and to make a name for myself. I do not want the people to know that I am doing it For money or honor. If I go to the hospital and the doctor says You have rheumatic fever and you need to rest You have a cough that keeps you up and you have a fever That will not go away I will be dead before I get well. And the only benefit of the disease Is that when I am dead I will not have to wear my uniform And march with the 382d Infantry. And I said, "This is a war. If you do not like it you can go to another And they will give you better clothing and you will be glad Because you are tired and your bones are beginning to fail." And he said, "This is not a war And we will send you home when you are well enough to go." And he said, "I am not a coward. I will keep you from the battle and you will get well And we will not stand by and see you wounded." I had come back from the hospital where they had taken me And I was dressed and I was happy as could be And I said to myself, "They have been fair to me." And I turned my face from the wall to look at the fellow drinking his rum And the first thing that he said to me was, "What have you been doing During this war?" And I said, "I have been taking care of my old folks." And he said, "You have." And I said, "You are too much for me. I am sorry you have them and I am sorry you have taken care of them. But you are too much for me. You are all that is left of them." And I turned and walked away. And the next thing I knew I was waking up in a hospital bed And the man was sitting with his head on his hands And his fingers waving. And I said, "What is this I see? I can't be dead." She stood with bowed head Before a mirror in her room, muttering softly to herself While she examined each smooth, brown toe of Álvar Núñez. She noticed that they were firm and that there was no evidence that they had been broken, But the matter was up there on the table and she did not dare look. And she turned her head to the right, and her beautiful face became serious, And she raised her head to the right, and her fair, sad eyes grew deep, Then the room seemed to grow dark before she spoke, for she saw the shadow of a sword. But she turned her head abruptly and her fair, sad eyes fell in despair And she said to herself, "No, it can't be. It can't be. My Álvar is not in the hall. He has sent me away to my bed and now he is going to take me away To his house, but I will fight against him, for he never gives me any rest. I will not be taken. He has broken me, and he can hang me anytime he chooses." And the more she thought about it, the more she was certain that she was going mad. And the more she thought about it, the more she was certain that she was dying. <|endoftext|> Our strong good-will and interest But find our stars of freedom We lose our sight, Like child that through dark glasses Is able to see all things. We've learnt to wreathe with "tissue" Lilies for the dead, We've scarcely any fragrant flowers That wither with the bloom, We've no pleasure in the winter sunset That glitters on the snow, But all the beauty of the springtime Is reflected in thy face. Thou's but a little child, Thou's but a little child; But thou hast shining treasures That few can boast, And they are ours now and here, Thy smile and glances. We gave thee everything That thou couldst want, The joy of happy hours With friends near thee, Of dreams full of light And beauty in the night, Of art and nature. Thy happiest hours have been With dear friends at home, The softest bed and the sweetest board, The dearest kindlierest care, And the perfect understanding That comes of friendship. We miss thee here and now, We miss thee far away, And smiling we beg That thou wilt come again, To drink the drink of joy And not to waste it. Thy absence is like the air that's A shadow of the sun When through it glides the soothing voice of The spring's dewy trumpet, And through it softly breaks the word of The distant shepherd's pipe. Thy memory is like the bright sea That, like its living image, shines In sunshine and in storm, Or like the ancient, dim, austere shrine Of holy solitude Where gentle shapes, an angel's team In soft-moveless procession, pass. Thy presence is like a soul within The heart of some great, good man Who, strong in himself, is yet The rod and the sword of a just And mighty king, and holds his court In some divine fashion, yet is A man like thee. Thy dream is like a clear wave that Breaks on a distant beach And, ebb-wise collecting, gains A tide again, ere it is lost For ever, and thy heart again Is as a radiant body; It moves and it moves at its full Within its splendid and eternal Gloriousness. There is no place where we two are not met, There is no hour where we do not meet; For, day by day, there comes an exchange Between the spirit of our souls That we are bound to each other. Our lives are a long river flowing And we two go together From Calm Spring bank to Thorney Hill. In bright and starry skies Thy face is ever risen to meet mine; There is no place where we two are not met; There is no hour where we do not meet; Yet in thy sight I seem to fall Like a floating cloud 'Mid the stars in the summer sky. I never look for thee In the drear and weary noon; But, like some happy child, I sit and dream in the sun, And thy white soul grows luminous Like a silver flame. I have seen the crimson rose Fill its cup to the brim Till its thin petals, trembling And delicate, seem to fold About the chalice theirs; And I've seen the bee Gather the flower Into his jointed cup, And drink and kiss and pass Into the flowery sod. So in thy spirit I see The thirsty, happy bee Drinking and kissing and passing Into the flowery sod; And, when I look to see The cup he leaves, I see its ruby cup Full to the brim. The silence that is settled Upon the ocean of our being Is like the shadow of a boat That, anchored in a quiet harbor, Moves softly through the sea, But cannot raise its head A single pulse above the wave. The silence that we feel Is the voice of the spirit that broods In the depths of the flowery sod, Off, away, and away, In the light of the sun and moon And the song of the river; The voices of our own loved ones Whispering in dreams, Whispering still. They are calling to us, I know, With their faces that we know; The faces of those who first made The heart of our mother young; But, from the heart of the hill To the golden shores of the sea, They are calling to us. We have chosen a land to die in; We have chosen a grave; But they, dear lost friends, We shall miss in the darkness and the dark, Oh! never more. The smiles of our lives shall veil their sight, And tear by tear, Day after day, They shall grieve us with their loss. Where the birches say "Live," There is beauty to be found; Where the mountains laugh, Beauty is found; Where the forests are, Beauty is to be found; Where the streams run free, Beauty is to be found, Where the winds come from the sea, Beauty is to be found. Where the living are so glad That they make the earth rejoice, Where the souls of the brave Are as fair as the flowers, Where the earth is full of flowers, Where the sky is glad with light, There is beauty to be found; There is beauty to be found. Where the God of the lonely With the courage of fire Fills the hollows of earth and sky With a power and a might Never before revealed, There is beauty to be found; There is beauty to be found. Where no terror is heard But the trampling of a horse That comes to tell the way, Where the way is peaceful and sweet, Where the love of man is nigh, There is beauty to be found; There is beauty to be found. When I go back to our little home from the war, Where we spent our last year's hopes and last years's happiness, I shall not find you, nor know you, nor love you, or love; For the little doors that were always open will be shut. I shall see the pale faces in the failing light, I shall hear, but you will be far beyond me. The first swift smile of morning on the beaten paths, The last of night on the pathway's sleeper, the passing of hours and years--they have gone from us. But the earth, which receives, reflects, preserves, and speaks all that we leave, lives on, and shall outlast us. O Earth, we have fought for you, and for what? Vain ideal, naught but a name; Ruth, merit, and nature, unknown. We have died for your peaceful earth, Which cradled life and died with him. O Earth, we have fought for you, and for what? The haunted dream, the phantom joy. In the hour of our deepest sorrow, We have dreamed the coming rest. And now, O Earth, have you heard us at all? Or have you heard the last sad music of our strife? We have fought for you, and for what? The bitterness of tears, the fear. We have fought for the sense of being, The beauty of an evil thing. The final kiss on the lips of sleep, And the awakening at last. O Earth, have you heard us? Have you heard the call of our great, great sorrow? Or have you only heard the dying music of our sorrow? For the lips that were torn, the broken hearts, the last sad music. O Earth, have you heard us, or not? The young boy went out to the war, To the war that his elders shunned. He was told, and he believed, and he knew, That his elder brothers had gone there; And that this war, with its blood, Its horror and its tears, Had something higher, something more divine Than the ordinary wars of man. The old men sat and watched him pass, The old men shook their heads, but said: "We have watched these ones who are dead. Death comes to all; but God has sent him To this battle, not to other battles. We cannot turn away from him." And the tears came into the eyes Of the young boy, as he went. The eyes of the young boy, which had seen So much, now turned away in sorrow; For he saw the old men watching it all, And they were sad and tired and old. The dead man's hand on the gun, The dead man's foot on the firing-mat, The dead man's face in the dust, <|endoftext|> He at once advanced in strength, And sate beneath his stalwart shield, And glancing round his lofty crest, In all the arrogance of war Exclaimed, 'The soul of youth I hold not low, The soul of war I'll not stoop to thee.' He bade his fellow-warrior stand, And stretched his spear, with swelling head, Like a tall tree in the wind that shakes With one dry snap; then he, with looks grave, And voice that swelled with pride, this answer gave: 'The soul of youth I hold not low, The soul of war I'll not stoop to thee.' 'Gladly would I go,' quoth young Leo, 'And see, if it were hot and dry, And food were plenty in the land, What that might be of Leo who spoke That was so high of loftiness.' Then soft his speech and full his breast With words of pleasure made this answer glad: 'The soul of youth I hold not low, The soul of war I'll not stoop to thee.' The Baron with sudden wonder blazed, And for a moment there he stared; But strove, in his proud heart to hide His own surprise, to show his pride: 'I never could believe it possible,' He said, 'that aught of God's earth could grow, That man could exercise aught of life; But yet the King of Love himself, I know, Is with the child, who, when the lea is blest, Will go and bring her, if possible, nearer God; And if she can be soon persuaded to share His life and service, or be roused at need, I am so well content that she should be That, after all my wisdom, I shall bless That lovely stranger, if the child be born, For the sake of one I love.' 'O my Beloved, O my brother, If it be thou, go forth at once, And if it be not thee, yet know, Thou hast the power to do what thou wilt, And unto the girl belongeth long The glory of the land; for she Is mine on earth, in heaven above, In spirit child of her who bore me.' With that an icy whisper through His heart, and at his throat a twist Of fatal motion, down he sprung On hands and feet, and moved away From her who, watching him, that hour Had remembered how to strike and cling, In fear, to Leo's neck and scalp. But Leo darted up the tower, And hard by, swooning, Marphisa lay; And as he passed within the light, Which at his back-bone was spread, his sword Splintered, and the cross from his head Fallen to the earth; then fell apart, Gasping, and sightless, and in such wise Deep death's pallor o'er him lay. And Leo, seeing her that fled With Marphisa after that cry, Lest he by chance should follow her, Saw Death before him, and a cry He would not put aside for aught, And thus, with fearful words and bitter, To the God's own tongue, mute and dread, Made him repeat the tale of Fear: 'Twas in that battle, when the war Was at its height, my sister fought, Grieving, but not frightened, while all Approached her of her honorable fame; When I saw that she was wounded sore, For one of those whom wounds save more Than he who takes them, I rushed to her, And cast my arms about her, and caught Her with my arms, and comforted her there. Then was her face all light like light Blown through a chalice; but alas, I could not change the color once That was the color of Fear. 'I laid my hand upon her hand, As though I loved her, but it felt dry. And I said, "I die upon the field, If you will give me safe-conduct thither, Where my kinsman's remains are laid, And to the city I will show him." 'And I had words with Leo, when I saw that he would leave not him Even for burial, but would go Without the rest, who had fallen there; And with angry words, and many, many, I drove him from the city gates. 'But now, as I say, I went with her, Seeing she was wounded, that I might Grieve with her; and tears and sorrow fell Upon her face, while she wept sore, In that her love had left her so. But I forbore, for I loved her so, That I beheld not, as I went, The tears that on her cheeks were shed. 'Then straightway came the Emperor's son, And I had pity on him and her, And, leading her within the city, bade To that palace, where was her husband's abode, That she might there be near to him, for so My mother had spoken by her child. 'But the Emperor's son would there never yoke The colt which was born of his beloved bride, But used oftentimes to go himself, and cast The halter on the back of some weary knight, And go as well, with her, until he found His lady's tomb and the warm spring there. 'And he would stand still, and gaze and stare, And her and him would sit down together, And there would speak of her with dying eyes. Would say: "Sweet lady, I would not have thee So pale and sad, as now thou art, go fast, For God's sake take up my ring, that I, To prove my love, may see it on thy finger." 'So would he speak and stare, and put his hand Upon her head, and touch her cheek and chin, And try if it were cold or not, and so Would say: "I am thine and thou art mine, take, I will rule here, gos Sinon, and the fourth Be thine own, for of these four I make thee one." 'Then would he slip his hand beneath her gown, And would fondle her, and would kiss her mouth, And would try if it were hot or not; And his desire and love, thus coming nigh, Would make her sad, and cross, and piteous, And helpless, and helpless, saying: '"Nay, love, I cannot go with thee; nay, I must not take thy place, I cannot Understand or do all that you would." "What! faith and courtesy enough for thee? Thy place is here, and on thy face is laid My ring; thou must not bend nor stay nor think." 'But she would cross herself, and cross herself, And tear herself away, and cry aloud: "Alas, that I should have thus offended! But I have lost my sinewy strength, My courage and my cunning; and I Am weak as well as stricken in the heart. 'What should I do? what little thing avail To try with motley or with rainbow dyes The rainbow colors on a tangled wreath? How shouldst thou, Venus, be so bold as With thy sweet looks and flower-crowned head To intrude upon my solitude? 'I wear my horn as a most loving token Of that sweet God who gives me every night A vision of his throne, wherein I Can see his face, where amid sweet music He sits enthroned with nymphs round him, I Among the choicest, where I may renew My love-song, and may catch rare sweet glimpses Of his most gracious majesty. 'Ah, it were dear mistake, or else dear mistake, If I should now believe it possible That one who bore in hand a burning brand Could be content to smoke it in a cabin Or lonely room, or in a ruined shrine, Or on the plain where thousands killed each other For fun, could ever find the time or place! 'But it were better, far, to change my life Than remain the same; a martyr's life Gapes wide, in every phase, to every drop Of blood that bleeds or honey that yields. I would not kneel for wine, nor ask a meed, For gems, nor for the sandalled foot of love, Nor for a harp with strings laid well out, Or for a flower-crowned head, nor for A girl's soft tongue, nor for a flock Of cats, nor for a little stone, Nor for a little streamlet cold That in the meadows pours each day Its water thro' many mortal feet, Nor for a little grain of barley, <|endoftext|> With a little maid-servant sweet. I thought of the last kiss I gave, And the heart that now is still. Ah, never again, I thought, Will the bright eyes that love me beam, Nor the young arms that enfold me twine, Nor the arms and the bright eyes I love. I will miss the gleeful laugh of mirth, The flush of a new-born pride; I will miss to feel the quickening thrill Of a spirit that leaps in song. But oh, in the times to come, When the dark long days are past, When the soul shall love to be so pure, And the heart be so proud, I shall see, as the sun sets red, And a voice say, "Ave Maria!" She leaned above me, as I crossed the floor, And held my hands in hers; She sang of a sunlight love And a moonlit delight In the Eden that is no more, In the Eden of long ago. She leaned above me as I crossed the floor, And lightly swayed The love-birds that in the air Sang of the moonlit land And a father's care. And a mother's love. And a song so soft it could not be heard If the flowers in the sky Were as faithful to God as these In their glory and woe. But she sang of a solemn day, When love and joy are dumb; She sang of a solemn night, When pain and sorrow strew The way of the sinner's feet; Of a wrong that is not repaired; Of a sin that is not forgiven; And I turned from her, feeling cold And a cold shiver through my feet. I never shall forget that singing feeling In the gloaming of a stormy night, When the tempest is lashing loud, And the lightning's lashes catch the fires Of the burning woods in their scorching claws, And lightning flashes from branch to branch In answer to the shouts of Hell. But the sky is clear in this serene September; And over the river, seen as over a hill, The gray and white are sailing, Martha; Sailing past the casement, dimly seen In the glimmering light of the starless night,-- Over the river, past the budding bee-haunted hedge, They cross the moonlit water; And there falls the little white dove, As the great bird dips its neck, to drink. Ah, little white dove, Is it not lonely in the moonlight When the white and red have gone Out of the world of roses? And thy soft white throat Is warm and white, Yet cold as a shell In a marble garden. Little white dove, The world is full of roses; Only the bolder maidens Go to the fragrant lilies, Only the bolder maidens Spread their wings of light Where the bright white wings of morn Unsheathed their fangs of night. The world is full of roses; And thou shalt feed on their blossoms While the red and white bird sings So sweetly of the days of old, Till thou thinkest of a love that is deathless; For thou wilt know no peace Till thine armful of roses is complete, And thou hast gathered all of the wild-flowers That grow where the princes of the earth have been. Oh, I am weary of all day, All night, all morning too. I am weary of every thing in my life; And the worst of it is that it seems fair. Oh, I wish once before I lived to have lived Once for an hour when the sun was bright, And the wind was fresh as it is now. I never liked the town that much, I never liked the bridge too. I never liked the time that late, Or the month, or the month of the year. And oh, I wish that I had known, once more, The exact time that I did last. The perfect hour has passed for me, And I'm still at heart a frontier land. And I wish that there were no bridge or time In a country where a minute's mistake Can make you waste a life, or waste a fortune. And oh, I wish that I had known, once more, The exact time that I did last. I wish that time could straightway be changed Into another minute and place, So that I knew what I knew of the past, And the present, and the future, so That I knew what waste they had been made, And how much was wasted, and how much was given. And oh, I wish that I had known, once more, The exact time that I did last. But all is changed that's left and gone; I have come to see that nothing's permanent, That earth's illusions make the world go round. I have learned that the past is past; I have learned that the present is present; That future is future, and the present is future, And the present is future, and the past was past. And I wish that the past and the future Could fade, and the world should be as one Unmoved by creed, or creed by fear, Where nothing is solid but illusion, Nothing real but an unreal time. And I wish that men could have their way And everything could be as it is now, And the spirit of every man and woman Be wholly of the timelessness. I have seen people grow, They have grown in my darkest days, Young and old, both old and young, Both rich and poor, both lowly and high. They have grown peace-bearing, They have grown sacrifice, They have grown at their Mother's knee, All good children, all content. I have seen them come and go; They have lived and they have died; Their hearts have been light, and their hands Have broken not the golden rule. In the army, and at sea, They have found out life, and it Has been by the old men's hand, Since the world began. I have seen them face to face; They have sat in my happiest rue, And they have stirred my noblest fount Of strength, and they have stirred it deep. I have watched them in the house of clay, With the shadows of the years between them, And I have heard them, as the birds, Sing on without cease. I have seen them, with the blot of age Upon their foreheads, yet the radiance Of all the hope and the youth within them Of the most tender, most majestic mother, And the light, and the glory of youth, Within their hearts. They have grown from the young earth Up to the mystic sun, From the ground up to the heaven Where only the strong survive, The most strong, the most courageous, The steadfast, the pure. They have grown up to the thunder That rends the mountains, To the flame that is burning, To the wind that is whirling, To the sea that is rising. They have grown up, and there On the breast of the stream they lie, Two lovely waters; And the birds are singing of them, The birds on the wing, And they rest in the meadows Two lovely waters. With the wind and the water We have lived and we have loved, And the songs of our hearts Have soared and spread far and wide, High o'er the world, as the light of the stars, Lift up and fall down. We have lived, we have loved, And we have died for you, For the land that is ours, For the little ones, and you, For the land that is thine. There's joy in the house of us two, There's joy in the house of us two; There's joy in the springing grasses, There's joy in the gathering rain; There's joy in the baring trees, There's joy in the blowing winds, And there's joy in the house of us two. When the snow is gone, And the red leaves are falling, And the sweet, sweet buds are bursting, And the tender white blossoms Are falling and dying, And the March winds are blowing, And the bumblebees Are flying to and fro-- Oh, it's then that the joy begins! When the snow is gone, And the red leaves are falling, And the sweet, sweet buds are bursting, And the tender white blossoms Are falling and dying, And the March winds are blowing, And the bumblebees Are flying to and fro-- Oh, it's then that the joy begins! Oh, you dear eyes, my own eyes, Why will you close? Why will you stay so still? <|endoftext|> The angel-lad, and thou Heber, Where have I seen the flowers as dear As these? Thou laurel, for a sign That never died is bloom on tree: Thy silver branches fleet and few, Yet with their grace in new array The ear shall meet the old delight, As some sweet music still we find And pictures of the old delight, Which either in the heart do blow From small seed that grows in love's heart. Nor can I ever find, or see, The snowdrop that is not a queen, And that in all her race is not Discriminated by her name; No laurel that is not as fair As all the rest, though different nam'd: Nor bay, nor box, but different Boteler, Crieth in the same clear wood. We, that have nature's gifts as common and as great As she, may glory of our hopes to raise To the bright mirror, where herself she will Shine forth, as that other angel bright, Of gladness and of glory affrighted. Yet if there help or remedy be wanting In loving care or prayer or sackcloth, The riches or the wisdom, God gives not us We shall desire, as she, all the rest. O me! I see her lovely eyes In tears; her pretty cheeks are white; She leans with unwinking eye Against a blossomed bough; And in her hand, now wandering, now bent Upon her child, she seems to rest. She hath some token to deliver; She hath some secret thought, which hearkeneth Thoughts she hath long suppressed. She hears his childish voices ring About her heart, like songs of birds; She weeps, she day-dreams, she groans, And in her arms she wrap her child. The winds do sigh and listen, The flowers look sadly on; The waters of the well Fling down their golden waves Alive and sleeping, Frail flowers, which lie and sigh At the young foot of May. The moon doth slip and shimmer, The stars are lost in gloom, And o'er the mist and snow The dead leaves hoar are whipt; The restless streams, like leaves, Drop down, and then renew Their long-accustomed song. And now the spring-time comes, The birds are led away, And fern and flower are bare, And bramble and sedge All overhallow the road, And from the hollows thistle-seeds Parch in the sun and heat. 'Tis May, and merry am I, And May-time come to May, For I am young and merry; I sing a song, which is Not very different From what you used to sing When you were young and gay. I know you there on the road All by yourself in the dark With your flute and your child; And the echo of your song Comes over bare hill-sides. And your flute in the misty air Gleams like a fairy fire. All by myself, the pitchy dark Holds me sleeping; May be that man with the face All cold and white, Who follows at my side With singing and laughing. There is Spring in the world, I think, There is Spring in the world, I think, Spring of sweet words and grass, Spring of blooms and bells and bees; And the sky is made more bright For his promise of day. O happy, O happy, O happy May! That we are here with you yet; With buds and bells and sweet speech; And happy, happy, happy time For you and for me. The sower went forward Into the field, Where the wind did blow His bitter way; And he said, as he sowed, "What good shall come out of this?" But, when the plant was grown, The farmer came And saw the work he had done, And he paid him for it. I was a beggar maid, And my teeth I wore As ribbons still; I had a kirtle Of faded blue; I had a scrip That held a rand; I had a palfrey Of foul living mould, That chased the flies away From my casement, And served me right For being so poor. I used to toss The halfpence I had in my hand At the boys that came to play, And I used to get them back As fast as I could pay, And I'd dance and laugh and sing Till the birds flew away, And the horses gave me fright, And the dogs howled mad, And the cops and fiends were out To get me and make a noise, And if I fell, I'd spring straight up And keep on playing till I did. I used to dance and sing, For my health, and for pleasure, And my skin was young and fair As any maid's that is now: For my health I drank fine water And pounded raw eggs white and fine In a mixing bowl to sweeten, And I took small bites with my bread Till I was very thin and light, And I never cared for spouse or friend And lived with my mother And my halfpence and my kirtle And the faded blue Of my worn scrip and my old scrip; But my soul was sad, and my body sick, And all the time that I can remember I never saw my friends or felt glad, For all the time that I lived by myself The house was empty and the room was dark And the evening's door was always wide And I never had a happy thought Till I saw the ruddy firelight Through the dilating casement shine On the empty room And saw the empty door before me. I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring, with many-coulted horn, Returns to make the year more warm I'll arise and follow her cot Though the road be dark and hard. And when April comes at last I'll know that I am grown strong And can go at last to meet her, And when she talks to me I'll hear That noble North which I love Blow clear and strong at last above The long-drawn sigh of the winds of Spring. I cannot get to Alibazan, The heart of November, till May Comes with his plumes of chive and fire-seed; But I get to Alibazan much later In the season when small birds sing alone Upon the top of every bush and tree To whose branches their little feet cling fast, Like little lovers that love and do not know If they shall live or die. We are most alone in this world; Heart of all the world the only bone That cries to me is that of a heart, I cannot hear the heart of any other Except my own far down within a world Of my making, though other hearts may beat About it as about a throne. We are alone in this world, though near In the eternity of space we are; But up from that blue and infinite sea Of space we are, we are not alone, We are with the loved of all the earth, And when we die we die in the sound of life That is the world's heart beating clear and strong To the ears of all the earth that cry to me That I am one with the loved of all the earth. 'Tis a beggar's stump of a house, Built all of clay and thorns, And a dog-house where the wood-pigeons An ague will spread. A cygnet in the long brown grass Is the only shell in the shallow pool, And the hearts of ransomed men In the dog-house rot and rot, And the dogs have become too tame For their own good. The garden where my love grew, The roofless tips of her trees, I turned to a tavern, For a while at least; But though her cold black heart I brought It did not cure my love's pain, So I drove my black lute away And lay on the rough bed Of a thorn by the way-side. The sun on the dogs and the stars Are on the partridge's breast, They are chased from the yew tree's bough And they wither in the bramble bush; And I know it is holy, Because the wild blessings come Of the wise old earth to cheer My heart that is a thorn in the side Of the City. When I am far from you and this And under ground, I want you to know That I have loved you From the dark and the lowly <|endoftext|> To seek them out, a rough list to which he had to go, For to find two friends at least, which would not change their ways. The hope was dead. The more he thought on it the less he liked it. For he liked well to sit in his corner chair at ease, Watching the clock with a patient face, and guessing all too well When the great old Duns Scotus was beginning to speak. He never understood him, but he knew that he was learning fast. And one thing he seemed to remember distinctly Whereof the Latin text had spoken and praised the English. And his judgment seemed justly free from all guile and control, As if he had read a great deal in a lonely room, And in a silence listened to the breath of the stars. But the clock was striking, and that was the end of his rest. "A man's true calling is, whatever he is, From the grave where he is sleeping Though he be sleeping, and though the ward Of Death still sway And he know it not, to stand And the highest calling of his faith, Which is the service of mercy to man. For Christ's service is serving man, and it Shall never cease Till the sound of it shall send the echoes of bells Ringing from tombs about the world away. He turned from the dusty book on the table lightly, And with trembling lips said, "They call me miserly, But I think not much of the money in my purse, Nor of the few inches of gilt rank paper in my pocket. I think rather of the thought that the gilt's red, And the thought that I am red, when I feel the years Slip away like a scotch-glass in the evening sand. "So, sir, I long for the trite little things That a man is paid for. The little pleasures of carouse, And the little evils of work. I long for a friend To blame me for a fault, to forgive me for a sin, To sympathize with my failings and to guide me. It's easy to forgive, but hard to forget, And that's what I lack most of these days. "A man's called simple in discourses where he's told To be happy in whatever state he's in; But the truth is, when you're sick with a pain or a grief, The happier you are likely to be, the better able You'll be to bear it, the more the burden into which you're thrown. I'm old enough to know the wind blows out of the south; I'm old enough to remember a time when there wasn't snow on the ground. "But the old days are past, and the new are beginning now, And I pray God give me the strength to move on and fill The spot in my memory where the old days are not. It isn't anywhere near enough, the small place we're content to mark with a marker. God grants us the strength to do more, but not the location." "Ah," said the Cossack, "it's nothing but a marker. You're right, And I'm glad. I'm not the man you're looking for, now. You see, I've a wife that sheeds my counsel and is content to wait. But I have a rank that holds me to its shallow side. I know your kind likes pomp and flattery, and it's easy to tell them That for you it's worth gold to be up-front and honest, and to tell it to them In a series of mostly fables and similes. But the man who brings Accounts, brings sin, and I always must carry the least of it. "This is all the information I can give you. I'm coming back to town Soon. If you can find anything in the house, or discover Anybody near the place where you found me, soon you'll hear from me. But leave the house to me. I'll wait here." He hurried off. In a minute he returned, With two stout body-servants, who pushed their master aside And pushed him hastily into the house, and locked it behind him. The house was a mess. With how many battles had been fought Throughout the winter, the house was a stain upon the winter wood. The windows were shattered, and wooden boards were lying about. The snow was on the ceiling, and so clear, you saw into the room Where the girl and man were, And where the wood had been. The man took off his white hat, and held it under the fire Till his white beard glistened. "If you'll listen, Miss, I want you to hear me," he said. "The doctor gave me the ink, And I must go straight to bed. I'll see you tomorrow at eight." He smiled at her. She shook her head, And murmured "No," but seemed to understand. "I don't know What he means," she said, "but--yes." He went to bed. The servants brought in the mail, And laid it beside him. He laughed a little, And stretched his hands out, and tried to sleep. A little later he sat by the stove. The liquid in the kettle climbed slowly to his hands, And plunged. He flung it down in a silence. "I want to see," he said, "if anybody knows Where goes the mail." The servants hurried along, While he hung over it a vain half-hop, And tried the doors and the bars. The little key Gently turned the lock, and he called out, "Open! Open! Oy, kymellen! Oy, wracker! Oy, water moccasin! It's in the water! It's in the water! They came back with the little red boot, And pointed at the parcel. He tried to find A reason for their harsh comments, and cried A little bitter-sweet tears. Then he put The parcel in the boot, And fumbled for a wire to tighten it, And so lowered it, down in the boot And kicked it in. The servants watched him, Not knowing what to think. The woman said, "Do you think he'll come back?" "Yes," he answered. The woman cried, "Don't! Don't! Keep still! He's not so stupid as that. It won't do. He'll go back. He'll forget. He's been bored. He'll go back, and leave her all alone. He can be led," and there was a long pause. The servant bent down, and turned on the wire, A few more kicks and there was the package. The man at the door said, "O! where is it? I'd open, if I were you. Oh, you silly goose!" He kicked the boot against the wall, And tried to laugh, but nothing came. He tried the boot upon his foot, And felt a sudden heat, and wondered To find it burning, and then he laughed Because it burned so. "O, fire," he cried, "You're a queer child. You mustn't do things Like that. Now, if you're going to try To scare me like that, You'll have to do it yourself. Come on, There's no sense in you daring, To scare me with such a load of steam. I'll put you in the boot." "No," said the man at the door. "I think it was some one else, Somebody passing by. The package's got no meaning Unless you open it. Come on, open it." He reached into his pocket And took out the string. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes," He thought, with a smirk, "To some poor fellow Who'll think you won the lotto, And buy it for a song. It's only fire, a foolish fire, And if you make of it a harm, It won't be much harm at all." He wound the string round the boot, And turned it round and round. He looped the string round the boot And screwed it down. The woman heard it all And hurried out, not liking To hear her husband grumble And then the sourness in his voice Drew her presently away. There was a little, red boot lying On a chair by the table. The husband came back from the war, Still rejoicing. There was a look of reproach Upon his husband's face. "Why did you spoil your uniform, And play a spy for me?" The red boot lay on the chair By the table. The idle-headed husband Remarked, "Now I see <|endoftext|> And forthwith began the plain To smooth and fold his fleece, and he placed His brows against the sky and thus began In mid aisle quietly to await. The archangel, paladin of Heaven, Approached him softly, and the swain bethought Of dust of earth, and of the pleasant ground Upon which he had risen, and humbly pressed His forehead to the ground, and thus began: "And hast thou journeyed from the land of sleep, That thou mightest speedily with us descend Unto the center, where the road doth fail?" Scarce had he spoke when now the flag was seen Of morning blaze; and all the heaven was bright With ruddy luster of the rising sun; And now was heard the never-ending sluice Of water from the fountains; and the breeze Softly rose, and the flag of morning gleamed Upon the ocean; then spake the seer:-- "Lo! I perceive that all the land of sleep Hath been deceptive, and the palaces Of Dreamland standing on the borders of Dreamland Hath deceived me, and a vessel has concealed Behind its protective wall our weeping folk. Take heed, my son, to what thou shalt desire; Lo! I have marked how each landscape fades Into the blue of heaven; take heed and throw Thyself on to the river as it flows. The day of our returning will be come; For surely this thing thou shalt find fulfill'd, If thou hast ever thought upon the sea." Then answered Tristram, "Sir, I have thought on thee. But now I differently think, and more I have in mind, since now I clearly see That I am on the bank of the dry dry river, Who, for my sake, wail and wander so." "Not so," said the other, "and nor art thou The only man who here by right and custom Yields to the river its sweet right of way, Accepting as right its holy able To give us rest, and so to make the river God in his goodness and for our good pleasure Receives a living river, that may bring Its waters to the ocean and thence downwards By a different channel diverging to the sea, Changing the channel when it appears most fit; And so it comes into the ocean at Evesham. God, willing that every creature have her place, Nor place has a more fitting than that which thou hast, And all that other water more enjoyable, When it doth change its channel. Look again; What joy thou hast in looking back at the garden, The nesting pigeons, the descending sun, The pale green grass, the yellow flowers beside it, The dark green banks and the broad jetty meadows, The setting sun shining in the golden chandeliers, When now it seems as though it should never end. "Yet I would have thee turn not thus away From the delightful view, and turn no further Unto this river, but continue still To view it from this bank, for it is good For spirits to contemplate their perilous And grievous plight, and in this dangerous deep To prove themselves, if they may also see How God's goodness doth accompany His power. Look how the mighty river, looking on the heaven, Sends up a sudden gleam of fiery splendor, Like to the flash which guides the car of Mars, When it rides high over Titan's distant head Amid the clouds, sent forth from his hot weapons. Thus this glorious river, as it here leads to the sea, Faints into flames, and in a flame becomes Like to a gold embroider'd cushion, or a shrine, Turning all its hue to fire; then, devouring fire, Like a vast campfire spreads throughout its bed; And like a torch, with thousands of red fires Kindled and burning, sends up red fire to the heavens. And when these mighty flames had in their rage passed by, The water in the river first became as snow, And the sedges and the rushes all were converted To withered stalks and tender grass, and the flood Seem'd as it were glass, through which the river ran Thick as a spirit through all the other floods. And as the Father with His hands did blend The fire and water in the furnace, thus The Spirit from the open window at once Came on our side, and, in an instant, then All the heavenly fire and water in streams Down through the sludge and silt began to flow, And, like a dam, held fast together hold'd The whirling waters, whence it had receiv'd The damaging influence of the attacking fire. "But this too was good," said my teacher, "and must Follow in the last, that besides the fall Of fire and water, any substance smother'd Must still remain whole; and then must little seeds, The imprints of the sedges and the brambles, Be even as large as those of bread; nay, even The brambles themselves may weigh them down a bit." And so it was; and so, even thus, must come The perfect reform of this rude heresy, Which to our life we convert, in order that, Should we elevate again, we again May sink down; since both, after divers ways, We come at last to that new nature, which At once receives and gives itself again, Developed via irradiation. Now, reader, mark If my exposition be pedantic--nay, If I demand too much, and claim too much Of simple nature,--but this pedantry In simple cases is not to be wondered at. For I myself marvel much, when I consider That, while the seller of a thing would sell it To a stupid crowd, he dares to lie when He sells himself to men of intelligence. In truth, this ancient error was so plain And glaring, that the light of science hath Enriched and enriched it with many an idea, Many a fact; all in an orderly way, And ordered so as hardly to depart From science itself; though, to be sure, I know not one fact which this ideology Has not produced out of all its own. "For, truly," as Tertullian says, "in sooth There is no absence but must include The thought which is absent; and thus it is, That, in the well-filled quiver, the arrows Are ranged in countless numbers, and yet not The weakness of the iron made to fail Through suspicion that some of them are dead. This is the same with spiritual things; For, inasmuch as they partake of form, They can never be excluded from it; Nor, indeed, have I found it to my wish To exclude any substance from my circle. Of this organic food the spirit takes leave, And is delivered up to your most gracious grace; So that it lives, and is armed and shelter'd In your dew, while it hangs suspended, like A scare-crow high up in air, awaiting The question which you shall put to it. For, truly, the moment that one kind of faith Has risen up to a higher point of view, It opens out upon itself, and sends forth One of its wings, by which itself shall be learnt. "O captain, my captain, wise and brave man, Who adventure truly with a certain glory, And fight as an example to your sons, Thus far the meed of our deliverance To impart. I tell you, and the devil take That any of your own should disgrace you Beside the crooked law which he would break; For, rather than that, your stranger custom Shall make us victims of international law." Such were the words which Peter said, and such The words which Christ uttlied, but such, alas! Was the extreme meaning of the marvellous word Used in the next circumstance. When in act To follow through the desert the journeying pair, (For they were not yet two, but one of three,) They came to a river, and here the sequence Of the history ought to have ended; But Peter touched a bouquet, and, quite confounded, The noble pair were parted ere the next dawn. There are who deem that Fanny was a phony, And, had she lived, had surely gone to heaven Ere the birth of Calantha's brother three years Upon her. The first condition of her stay Was, that she should be a love object to him; The next, that she should love him, though she would not, And the third, that she should be a pleasure to him. And it may be justly believed, (and I grant It may be justly, I do not doubt the fact,) That Fanny would have loved Sir Peter, were she given To him, as she was to the other one, <|endoftext|> In thy fierce rage of bitter love, Shall she break faith with thee at last, To weep, and vanish from thy sight? Or shalt thou drag, with scorn severe, Her to thy bed, and so betray Her to her fiercest enemy? To weep, and vanish from thy sight, The sum of all my hopes and fears! To feel the very storm I fear! --Is this, O youth, my snug retreat Where more than fondness guides my choice? Are these the encounters of desire, Where the quick youth's eager eye Seizes all my charms, and never tires To see what I disown? What is this heaven-built citadel, This palace of delight and joy! Where the rich tributes of my mind, Inwrought with every bright fancy, meet To make the pilgrim gasp with taste! What is this flower-wreathed bower of mine, With its swan-white interior bright, But the black pit of despair, With its hell-born demon-guest! Nay, girl, don't mourn for him! Not by his darkening skies, Shall he ever see the day That his true love might come To live with him in my shade. Not by his woods of grief, Not by the death-bed where he lay, Shall he ever know what befell Love's wound for ever given. He had loved me true! He had loved me true! He lay with me at night, In my weep-cry soft, Beneath my window ledge, When the tempest raged, And the winds came wrong. He had loved me true! He had loved me true! Beneath my window pane, Nightly he loved me true, When the clouds hung gray, By the dreary rail. I knew it all the while, I knew it all the while That he came to woo me so! And I said "Nay" to him, I said "Nay" to him, Ere the kiss had left my cheek, And the heart of my breast. He had loved me true! He had loved me true! And I went to his home, And I sat down by his side, And I leaned my cheek to his cheek, And I kissed his forehead fair, And I kissed his name. Then I knew, ere the dawn was gray, That his heart was fain to win me home; And the blithe angel that I knew, With the rose in his hand, Had fallen down from heaven's porch, And had followed me home. I stood beneath the oak-trees' shade, Where the child-heart receded, And I saw the woman-Maidens stand In their pretty robed array; And a wind-breath chilled my cheek, As they numbered me by name. Mary--Mary--spake a name! Though I cried, "No, no, not yet!" Yet, slowly, from a loftier height, I felt her soft arms enfold me close, And her glowing lips confine The plaintive cry I dared not raise, Till tears were on my face. Elizabeth--(her eyes were full of fire) Smiled on my pleas for her poor sake; But her love was not so open made, As to set the sinner free. And, turning from me, she cast A dark look on her lady's gift, And I could feel her tears begin. Helen--(awful, stern, and dry) Nipped the lip that beat so free; "The least of your damsels is old," She said, "and her blood still beats." "By the power divine, I swear, "Beside the solemn altar, "And its shrouded form, a-blaze, "I will not touch the sacred wreath, "Till you have made your bargain!" Beside the altar stood A fair white witch, that night, Holding a wafer in her hand; "And when I take the Host in hand, "You shall have it half," she said; "What! half a soul?" I exclaim'd; "How dare you tempt me thus!" She said--"I swear it by the dead, "If it vouchsafe to save my life, "No other bargain I will make; "Your son shall be the inmost heart "Of that low witch, that brought you here!" "I do not blame the mother's care," Return'd the other, calm, and stern. "Then by the power divine, I swear, "No place on earth your child shall keep, "Till you have made your bargain!" "My child! my child!"--"It cannot be!" Said Mary Margaret. "I am afraid!" Return'd the other, stern and cold. "Then by the power divine, I swear, "Your son shall be a soldier slain!" "Soldier!"--"How! When?"--"When you find him, mother!" Mary Margaret clamored, in her despair. "We all have errands that we must watch, "When some one would do a service, "One should be near, to bear our tidings back!" Her mother stood, with patient brow, And told them of the famishing child, Whom her friends could scarce find food for, Because he lived on hill-top land. "Now by the Saviour's name, we swear," The mother said,--"No food shall e'er "Escape the grasp of one who is the child of love!" Thus Mary Margaret spoke: her wrath rose, And o'er her blackened cheek there spread A veil of mist, to seem of light; She smote the witch with her whitened hand, And with the gesture said, "Behold the child of love!" They saw her hand,--a minatory sign, And gazed in wonder; but the dumb old crone Went on,--her look forbade relief; A ghostly light, like twilight grey, Flamed o'er her features, as she spoke again: "Ye little ones that are within, "What makes your mistress' brow so pale? "A naughty trick your mother played, "But stay, I'll make things right again. "She stole--that is a fact--I see, "That every look ye cast is in the dark. "She stole--that is the greatest crime "That can be laid on this, her second chance. "She took a human soul--that is true-- "A mortal, to change into a shadow, "And made a hideous curse of her own; "She took my child--(how should they forgive? "I wish I knew the kindness they have tried "To teach my child) but oh! ye little ones, "I speak to you in Common-place: "To save your mother's life she thought she'd try, "But what she took inable to give; "She gave the devil--(she's sentenced to hell) "My child! my dear, my all,--he took the rest. "Now do not you go tearing your pinafore "And scolding to your mother so! "She'll never see him, never have a word with him, "Never will he utter one himself; "He'll be as far from her as you are, "And I'll be as far from you,--as blind. "I am sick of words that are not speech; "I am sick of keeping still and silent; "I'm sick of holding my breath and wiping my face; "Of letting you and me as if they were stones in sight; "We'll go it better by half if we stop to think. "The Devil has had three days at least to spoil the scheme, "He comes like snow and he goes away like rain. "He may come back as soon as we kill him, "And if we let him, he'll be more than ever likely,-- "He may have altered his ways and changed his look, "And maybe a little wiser for his trouble; "He may have some knowledge of women,--and how "Not to be too rash in trusting to them." The girl went on in this wise for a few more minutes, And then there came on her two children, his other two, The night brought them, and they found their mother with her hand. "They mustn't stay out so late," the mother cried, And both the children cried, "What! so late to-night?" But, if the story is to be believed, the child that was <|endoftext|> To curb the rage of Love's demon, The soothing example of a friend, The quiet, patient faithful Life. The weather's sultry; our life is cold, Its fireside joys are a pall of fear; A lonely sadness settles on us, We bow before the weight of care, But in the glen of the Serpie tree, We'll dream the storm shall subside, And Peace return, as in the days of yore. The snowdrop hangs her head of bright snow, Like a white rose in a crimson cup; She dreams of the far-off morn, When our souls shall mix and unite, And Life's loneliness shall vanish, And the nights grow happier and glad. The long, low drifts of the snows, The way they drifts o'er our path, Are like a weltering nowt of sin, And pain, to us here. But if we could snows of blue, The bright, sparkling snow, They would seem like the dew of heaven, And jewels like the dew of love. O Love! how canst thou break The spell of Love's still, sweet law! To cross Love's stream, Like manacles, on sorrow's feet Were monstrous enormities; And yet, when troubles press And grief's dimples wider grow, We break the chains of Love's vow, The law of the heart is Love. Our life is a wilderness, A hunger-bitten zone; Our sunsets are sickly gray, Our mornings bring the noon. O Love! we do not hear Thy wind of the winter sky, Nor see thy warm, wet eye; But feel the surge of the storm Wash with torture the flesh on ill-starred days. Thou comest in the wearisome way, After many days of pain; And faint, heart-sick, languid eyes, Like sorrows, are turned home. And wearily thy hours fall by, Like rain which wettered brows doth load. The world grows drear and wild at last, And not a sunbeam glimmers through the waste. How near was its coming, then! O Love! thy steadfast spirit cries, "Thy weary soul hath ached to be A prisoner in the arms of Joy." And wilt thou break thy sweet strangle-gleam, To free one minute from woe, To win another minute of ease, And find thyself in yet another pain? O Love! we do not know Thy ties so deeply are set, Nor yet thy heart so steadfast is; Thou art, after all, a fool, Who darest to think to flee thy pain. O Love! thy sorest pangs are borne For ever by thee, and at the last Thou wilt remember them and smile. I could forget the pain, The pang that pierces to the bone, The thrill that through my blood has rushed, Nor ever your picture think to move My spirit's ermine at a time like this. I do not ask you to unfold Your heart's white sheet of sadness, Nor do I wish you to write A cri de cieco (from the South) To cheer me, because at home I weep. I do not ask you to tell me where My dead may lie in war's wild contest; I only ask you to say a prayer For the many thousands who are marching Beyond the red and soaring sea, Whose mangled forms, on either side, With the plain are met, and fallen and dying. O heart, by sorrow overtaxed, If thou couldst hear all the wail, Sing ye sad songs that swell the sea Of both your lives, in my poor name. But if, only for the sake Of one whom ye lovingly regard, Ye will not raise the Voice of sadness, Nor write a wreath of woe for me, Then may the world omit the name of Him Whom ye do not love. You that here sit and sorrow, For him that's far away; For him whose name is on the stone Whose image you have framed; For him who mocks at all of you, And craves for daily bread; For him who steals the sun from you, Nor thinks of you as wronged; For him who came in scorn and hunger, And ate your plums at morning; For him whose empty hands that touch you, And for whom your hands are clenched; For him who hungers while he's singing, For him who carols and sucks your kisses; For him who danced and dreamed and loved, And did not wish that love should end; For him whose soul was as a ring of light, Which fell from the fingers of the Maiden; For him who sought to be like the Master, But was as one from whom the shadow came; For him who seeks to be as Great as He, He only wish for day may find his way; For him whose face and hands and forehead Like the Father's are, and for whom He died; For him who sits and thinks alone, And not to him who sings and speaks; For him who plucks no flowers from me, But for the ones that are given; For him who weaves the days of men To fashion Him to His desire; For him who walks through barren fields Because He cannot walk alone; For him who fasts and prays in his soul, Yet hath a hungry heart within; For him who lies awake and cries Until the dawning is past, And leaves His bed of pain and wrong And climbs but to find the light; For him who seems as though nothing Had happened, but has had his fill Of sorrow, and of tears; For him who seems as though his lips Were thick with dust and blisters; For him who seems as though the snow Covered the world and took it solid; For him whose fingers are with plums, And he whose fingers are with cream; For him whose face the green and golden Of trees and bushes is blended, With little patches of yellow mould That he loves with his whole soul; For him whose face the trees and bushes Are like the glow of morning, For him whose face the sun is marred Through hazy skies of drizzling rain, For him whose mouth is filled with silt And not with sound of waterfalls; For him whose mouth the sky is marred, And who walks alone in heedless crowds, But cannot drown the noise of theirs; For him whose feet are heavy and slow And not plucked for walks in middle air; For him whose legs are heavy and slow And not carried on the the arms of love; For him who seems not to care to go Or not by some dark intuitive desire; For him whose words are deep of heart And full of heavy, endless talk; For him who speaks to no one ever, But ever to the same one prayer; For him who thinks himself alone Because he cannot find a face To answer him as friend to friend; For him who is not what he seems, And for whom all voices seem false; For him whose face no one would care to see, And for whose face no one would care to see; For him who haunts lonely doorways And none would care to enter there; For him who sings alone at night, And sings in his heart the whole year long; For him who is a poet's long ago, And for whom all poets are forgotten; For him who waits, and for whom no door Can ever be opened for him; For him who withers in the light of morning, And for whom death is long indeed; For him who sleeps in the light of morning, And who finds all hope too strong; For him who seems as though nothing Had happened, but for the sake Of sorrow, and for bitterness; For him whose soul is all in shade, But nothing in the light of daylight; For him whose life is all in haze, But not for nothing has he died; For him who seems not what he was, And for whom all things were not; For him who dies not, nor doth he know How all this had been, had he not been; For him upon whom falls no tear, But only laughs at all sorrow, And sleeps the long long night through; For him upon whom hangs no pall, But alone beholds the light Of a long death without regret, And thus lives evermore, and thus sees The true light, the true night, and heeds Not what is strange, nor all the new Of things that be and things that be done; For these he sees not, and his heart Lives in a strange quiet, and there he feels <|endoftext|> Hou thus he schal ben honeste Withoute feigned cheste, Which noman wole him seie Bot he which is the lord. And in this wise myht thou fynde That who that mai his tresor kepe, That tresor mai be envie, Wherof that he is noght wise Therof mai be losse and myht, And is fulliche a losse and mochel. Bot if a man wol a lond kepe, He mai his propre tresor kepe, And is noght of such encress That he ne scholde discush the vice Of trewe and of faste was. For he mai wel wisse hem alle, He wolde, as he which was merciable, With al his wit sette him at large Of his propre tresor in special, And nameliche of his honour, Which al his tresor hath of his lyht Fulfild of that ilke sete, Toward himself he hath therto, And that is to mi conscience Unto his condicioun, As I schal thee hiere upon Touchende of Misericorde. Lo, thus upon the ferste nyht, The nyht of Avrille, as thei sein, The king Of Flamath and othre mo With here hondes al aboute Among the Tresoriars duelle, That ther the king Flamath was, The which of Guard consulteth The See aboute his dowhter tho: Bot whan it was full sene And longe and throwe into retenue Thurgh Dirceanes armes bigynes The thridde nyht in fere abod, The houndes forto devoure Of hem the cuppes bothe on fyr The tidinge of here love ladde And tornen to the see ayein. This yonge king, which was untrewe, This okesstman whan he cam nyh, To him anon anon sche seide, And bad him to a riche king To schylde a riche corage, That he his herte telle so Unto his dowhter thanne mad: And he, which hadde alle thing, Be nyhtes time so beguiled, To telle ensample forto hiere Hath bent his yhe al that he mihte, And that was noght in mannes sihte, Bot as an weder intenselve It goth a freshe upon the sand. The riche king, which wolde fiede His owen dowhter to the toun Of hem that ferst comen into thilke londe, He bad him faste by his lond, That he schal kepe and holde tho A bord of gret vertu pouerte; And over this a king he hadde, Which hadde ben a moder blod, Wher that he hath his moder fre Of al his world ayein a bet. And thus this yonge lord forclaweth Hire lady, and with such wyht The hihe king hath him deieth, And with here hertes so he travaileth That he ne mihte what sche wolde. And natheles in this degre, Hierafterward, as for a fact, A sone of hih muche thoght Abloyn upon the Cite cam, Wher he was wont to gret mervaile; And whan that he this dede sih, He syh his oghne wif aros. Tho was ther mochel joie wroght, Bot if that sche be for ever ynowh, Sche hath no cause forto plese. And thus the hihe god him broghte That he his dede scholde oppose, And bad that if thei miht finde That the goddes wille were: Bot, fader, this I telle trow, As ye, my Sone, have herd seid, If that thou wolt the Sone rewe Hou the wylde mater is knowe, Wherof men scholden take affaited The tricherie of goddes kynde, The which was knet and wroght so sore, That it ne mihte be don above, I thenke a gret part forto wynne. Bot over that I wol noght preie, And nameliche of such a skile To se the nede of his aduersite, For it is goddes wille I rede; And for it were in haste yit, It scholde noght be foryete, So that I preye thus ayein: Ther is no mannes ded, I war, What so befalle forto drede, Bot if it be for the beste. And in good hevene forto drede Ther is noman his thonk deserve, For every man hath wræce and mesure Of thing which he mai noght undeserved Take hold upon, and is beschaded Al forfurõd of his graciatõon; For who that such on wole astat, He schal be for fulre time rebuked. The Sicel wicke and the wodde Be alle weies have on acord Fro thilke untrewe ilke unkend, That nevere cowthe under his hele The meke enemysman hiere Be cause of graciaté, So goth the lawe in profyte Of grucchinge and of curtichede. Bot lawe and poeple of such a kende Schal to the riht of the plowh Be disele noght dere confused; For who that wolde his cause lerne, To pris may noght his cause mesure, The lawe his lawes thenketh binde, And wole hise lawes affyen. Bot if it so be that lawe And poeple for the science Of him which lawe demeth bringe, He set him bothe poeple and lawe, And sette him downe in such a plit That it mai ben avanced at alle. For who that wolde his relefe save With wordes good and argute As for the time that it lasteth, He schal himself for evere apaile. Wherof thou miht ensample take And knowe what I schal seie ne forto wite, Which wel is aprocrycalacion Of many a contenance tofore. Whan Venus to the wodde bothe And to the feminine it began With dres and with visage bright Thei made and deide in such a wise That thei no wommen scholde ay The grete londes forto holde, Of which men weren alle stille, And every berthe hemself non Ayein the grete Cardinal Be-gan, and thus this Venus said: "O thou, my Sone, which art my Sone, Now herkne a wonder thing to wite: Bot if it were so that thou art Worthy to bere a womman schame, I have hem trewe, er that thou hast Of wommen be such a man A worthy wommen as men axeth ta? Now herkne a wonder thing to ete, And also it is a womman love, That thou art such a womman loth, And ek that thou art such a man Folhaste, as I thee lete wite: For oght that thei myhte it noght, I wolde it scholde noght be, If thou ne stant of love such, <|endoftext|> Till my hand strikes out with its youth's force; Till my eyes the o'erhanging dawn avail, And my lips in one long kiss adore thee. What time we saw thee first, a stranger To that beauteous form, that dazzles me; How fondly, how apropos, then, I remember those mild eyes, so deep And lovely, so haughty too; So haughty, so fondly sincere; So tender, so fiercely genuine; So moved, so deeply thoughtful! How didst thou breathe that mysterious air, That suspense sublime of passion and awe! How didst thou leap upon my bosom, And seize that feathery dweller there; The warm heart, the pearly hand; the kiss, The dream, the dream's fulfilment there! How didst thou tangle my soul in a snare For thy ensnaring glances, so deftly drawn! How didst thou entice with thy converse my soul To an unholy act and deed here done! How didst thou compass with thy language My strange young mind to a dear-bought price! And, last, to close, thy sweetness's force, Its whispering of pardon, and release, Atoning, tear-distracted, from remorse, And shame and terror and awe and pain. Not from the river of black aftereffects, Withering a harper's voice, and numbing a saint's! Not from the surge of black intractableacies, Which rushes like a tempest 'gainst a pilgrim's! Not from the realm of black uncreated powers, Which gleams in the inscrutable unutterable torment! Not from that bale-born branch of our first fall, Fierce, dark, and hopeless, and triumphant! Not from the passion and delirium Of the darkness, where the soul is a king Possess'd by demons, and doth toil to earn A single breath of strength unto his hand, Or beauty unto his lips-- Or lips to win the power of breath to heal The languor of that hour, whose flame the spirit spends To hearken where the cry of man Rings to the heart of man: What though I fall? What though I languish? What though my day is speedily quench'd, And my sightless eyelids close their door On the sightless night? Thou knowest it not, O love! thy love Is pinnacled on high! and I, whose words Once smote thy spirit's horizon, Lie blind beneath thy braid and thorny bier, And wait till thine own hand blesses me. All in the purple glens of yonder old wood, Falling like light rays, Melting in rings The tawny leaves and stiff far-off shadowy stems Which grow In the still depths, Steep'd in the mystery of benediction, And the solemn psalm Of the little cedar man, that falls On the deaf mosses soft with little feathery sighs, To abide O sweet green forest, Where the birches grew and still the woodland linger'd, Where the elm and the ash have vanish'd, And the mossy paths are trodden no more, Where the broken steps are lost in the dark green pines, And the broken dreams of old On the melancholy ground: O sweet green forest Where the birches grew and still the woodland linger'd, Where the elm and the ash have vanish'd, And the mossy paths are trodden no more, And the broken steps are lost in the dark green pines, Have you ever dream'd of me as a little child Fallen in your woodlands, Where you never visited, And I never knew? O my own sweet woodlands, O my own sweet darling woodlands, Where the melancholy birches grow, And the brakens under them weep, And the trunks press close and close, As if they would caress My clasping head; O my own sweet woodlands From the heights of life! O my own sweet woodlands From the depths of pain! But my nurse she bade me dream Of happier things, and sing Of love and hope and faith, In some fair Jerusalem, Where people walk on heads Of psalms and sacred chants, While flocks of angels wing their way To sights of towns of glory, And the pure White-Rose. Yet what if some one, perchance, On those long wandering feet, Had mournful eyes and brows O'errun with sadness, As I had sunk in love's turmoil, And they, the sad-eyed nuns, Had walk'd with me in tears Along our leafy limes? They might have said, "Lo! what ensues From sad life and care to sorrow, When thus she paces her shadowy cell?" And I might have told them of a dream, That pained my heart and made it wring, Where I saw a sad-eyed Mary, With Mary's cool words and gentle smile Walking beside her; and the hope And joy of youth were over all, And I was left alone in life, With Mary's sad cool words and gentle smile. The fountains sere, and the flowers Are fading in the brightness Of your gay, victorious roses, While old troubles gather again Like withered echoes of an Eden, And voices of discontents, And jealousies of polluted years Are rising through all your joys and sorrows. And we, you see, were happy, And fond, and innocent, Though others toil'd with ruthless strength And ruthless art, to chain Our spirit to a crucible For the giving of their lives, And were repulsed for bliss, And cast into the darkness For all time! Now they have won The goal of life, the bitter part Is past, the battle is won, And there is peace on earth for those Who have learned the secret of life. Yea, peace, and there is no more Any war, however fierce, And the narrow passage broken down In the heart of man for ever, And no more weariness of heart Or any sickness of the flesh, Or the hard stir of passions sweet, Or the fever of love's hot flow, Or the quick flashes of wrath and hate, Or the fiery flashes of revenge, Or the icy chill of hate and fear. And though there is peace on earth, Though they have reach'd it at the price Of bitter pain and anguish, Though the weary heart grow calm And the eyes forget their tears, Yet we, you say, have not come To the peace of the world at last, But are still in the war! Yes, we, you see, are still alive, And the voices of our suffering Are heard on the wind and the sea, And the shadows of the trees On the earth and in the air Are our voices, and our pleading Is heard on the wind and the sea, And the voices of our fallen In the darkness of the grave. We are still alive, and your tears Fall on our slain in war, And the earth that gave us birth Tells its sorrow of sorrow To the winds that are wild and weary Of the strife that has long been fought. Yea, we are still alive, and the hope That once had tinged our sunlight Is for ever quenched in tears For the hope of our youth was fruitless And our trust in life was bold, And our life is filled with anguish For the man who has been defeated. And we are still alive, and the flame Of our dead comrades' pride Is a beacon burning in death, That brightens the darkness Of the eternal night, That baffles the darkness of our grave, That leads back again to the dawn The souls of the souls of the dead. The dead who have gone before For the sake of the living, For the sake of peace and truth, For the sake of the bright, bright day, For the sake of life, and light, and hope, For the sake of all things save mere life, The dead have gone before, and we Are here to do the deed. Yea, we are here to do the deed, And our task is hard and new; But the deed is not hard to do, For the deed is done to-day, And the deed shall be done to-day, And the deed shall find us sleep. Our hearts are torn in sunder, Our spirits are levin-irised, With the blazing of a thousand suns, And the crackling of fiery planets, And the thunder of wild levin Shaken from the central suns of love. And the souls of the dead Are fanned far back in their graves By the beating of a thousand thorns, By the wailing of voices afar Burning for their sake, Till they find release in songs of the valleys. For the fire and the blood That now burn in the sun For the purpose of freeing All things done in the blood and the fire, For the purpose of freeing All deeds done in the fire, And the blood, and the thorns, and the suns That burn to the purposes of freeing There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the lips of the dead men say, That the lips of the living say When the dark of the dead men's lips are pale, When the flesh of the dead men's knees Press the ground, When the lips of the living men's eyes Pale with the heat of the fire they would speak. The flames that the living men's mouths Pulse in their faces Tremble in the touch of the flames that their feet Touch on the threshold, That the living men's blood should wash All things done in the blood and the fire From the earth, from the air, From the thorns, and the thistles, And the earth should take the things done in the fire To purify, and cleanse, and exercise All the powers of the purifying touch of the living things. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's tongues Speak, as their strong knees press The earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When the dark of the living men's eyes Press the ground, When the lips of the living men's eyes Pale with the heat of the fire they would speak. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Fingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's lips Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Fingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Fingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's tongues Touch on the threshold, When their countenances Tremble in the heat of the fire, When their bodies Pingers the earth to dissolve All things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's eyes Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their tongues toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. For fire and blood Have scorched and melted them all, And they burn and brim To be combed in finest wool To cleanse the earth of sin, To be given to all men as clean As a creature's breath to breathe. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their lips toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their lips toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands tremble in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. There is fire and blood Burning to the use For the coming of the thing That the living men's souls Touch on the threshold, When their lips tremble in the heat, When their tongues tremble in the heat, When their lips toil in the heat of the fire, When their hands toil in the fire to dissolve all things found here in the earth to the earth. I stood among a blaze of colors, In a blaze of sounds, And it seemed as if the poets sang Of heaven itself; And I could not understand a word That the tinkling brooks said. I stood among a blaze of colors, In a blaze of sounds, And the poetry of the place Possessed me wholly; And the poets sang of beauty, Of life and its memories; But I listened and seemed to hear No sound or word of them. I stood among a blaze of colors, In a blaze of sounds, And I heard a voice that I knew, A voice that I have known Ever since--a voice that I love, And for ever will adore; And it whispered, and it called, But I heard no thing but the sound Of the brooks in the forest. And I thought how strange it is To be born a human being In a world all red with imagination, And I thought how strange it is To be born a colorable being In a world all built about With imitations of one's imaginative nature. And the brooks for their own water And for their own color were seeking, For they knew that a day would come When the breath of God would come And stir the color in them, And they knew that a day would come When they would feel God stirring As they felt him now; And I thought how strange it was That they should feel God stirring As they felt him stirring, And I thought that they might teach us That strange thing-- They were calling as a bud calls For the wind to hurry and sing; They were calling to the tree, As the tree called to the bud; And the tree was speaking Of the word of the wind and sun, And the bud was saying Its secret to the sun And the word of the breeze. I met a child upon a time Among the blue-bells by the wood, And he asked me, "Who are you?" I answered, "I am the child Who comes to you in every year; I am the child who asks you now Who are you?" He answered, "I am the child Who comes to you in every spring; I am the child who asks you now Who are you?" "I am the one who asks you now Who are you," the child repeated; "I am the one who asks you now Who are you?" The summer is done, and the sun Comes slowly forth to his resting place, Rising as slowly now from his bed As he rose once in all his life; And slowly, still a little boy, Making his way, Like a cowboy going to his resting-place, Leading his little courser by his side, Comes slowly to his resting-place. Gone are the lovely flowers that blossom In the garden of the heart, Gone are the happy hours that they brought, As a child thinks of his mother's breast; Gone are the loved, the lost, the wedded, And the lovers are silent now, For the heart has closed its garden gate 'Neath which the flowers no longer grow, And the only thing standing in it now Is the horse that led thee there. But the earth is green with springs, And the soul is healed of sorrow, And the pilgrim knows that he is still On a pilgrimage, but now To a more perfect shrine; And the holy flowers of the valley That gave life to the old-time hours, Like a dream they are fading fast, And the only thoughts that arise To grace this holy hour, Are the thoughts of the horse that has brought thee Unto this sward. And the boy who is foremost of all The listening multitude Unto the gates of the temple Rises up and looks around, And in silence,--for the voice of prayer Has caught him by the hand,-- Sees before him on the golden threshold, In the light of the setting day, The living image of himself; Sees, and he knows that he is resting On the bosom of his Mother, And that this is her true living shrine Where forevermore he shall dwell, The darling of her eyes. Tranquil and fair and lovely Sits in the midst of the garden The woman who conceived and bore him. And he feels that he is resting On the bosom of his Mother, And that this is her true living shrine Wherefore till time shall be no more, And the very thought that he bears With him, as it now seems must, The thought that he must dwell In the place of his birth forevermore, In the heart of his Mother, Hath brought unto his spirit wonder, And a longing there, a ecstasy Of joy that can never be told, As the spirit that has passed from earth Must keep its joy a mystery. Thou, whose heart is as a river That flows unto its goal, Thou gavest thyself the man To be in turn the meal For thy children, not thyself; Thus hast thou taught us that to be Is ever to give, even as we must Give up our very breath, The blessing of being, when we die, Is deathless,--and life, alas, no more. O God, thou knowest that we who die Are but the precentors of death, And that life hath its very low, And life's little year is come, When we have power to pause and sleep, And when our hearts grow calm and strong To meet the calling of the grave With a calm heart, but no dark heart, And a bright being crowned with love. The dream is o'er; and o'er the dream Thy hand hath fallen, as a hand Upon the bedclothes when it sleeps To slip thee in the night from harm; And the good hope that did beget The dream in the first place is dead, And the bright hope is dead with it. Yet I have dreamed the dream a second, Dreamed it plain as day, and told The secrets of the life and death That were as dark as death can be, If the gate there lead to the light, And I have spoken truth with thee In this new place that dawns above. O God of truth and mercy, Mighty and vast and fair, Who sittest in the heaven, From whose great skies We come, the sons of men, And go as sheep that go From pasture where we graze To wide-scale sands that are drowned, And beyond the reaches of the sea, And the sad harbour of our woe; Dost thou comfort us who weep? Thou gavest us life, and we The wisdom of the ages, And life again, and strength, And the heart that change knoweth, And the hope of human love, And the perfect yearning of the human yearning; Dost thou comfort us who weep? O God, who art above, And from earth and sky The stars and depths of sea, Who knowest of our woe, Of our sadness and despair, And the soft tears we shed; From all the light of suns, And all the darkness of stars, And the wind's trouble and sorrow, And the waters rolling earthward, O God, who knowest all, And guardest us above, Who wear, all trembling, Our dress of flesh; Send us thy light above, That we may behold thy face, And the sorrows of our brothers, And the gladness of our sisters, And the crying of the young children, And the smile upon the mother's face, And the warm darkness of the palace, And the silence at the door, And the lifting of the voice, And the feeling in the heart, And the sorrow in the spirit; And the empty places in the city And the waste places of the sea. The bright flowers of the garden, The little white-winged birds overhead, And the sweet, sickening smell of the sea, As it passes to the salt sea-water; The lily that grows in the palace yard, And the moss-grown fountain stone by stone; The high, white wall, and the sinking sun, And the stars that are lost in the west; The delicate, branched roses in the bowers, And the dark-blossomed, tangled shrubs of the woods; The soft sea-beach, and the blue sky overhead, And the white, waist-high, undulating line of the ship; The thin, quick breath of the morning, and the dew, And the hot, earthy smell of the salt sea-bed; The white, shrivelled faces of the servants at their tasks, And the broad, brown, sane faces of the sailors; The cool, breathless, sickly eyes of the girls at their sewing, And the high cheek-bones of the grown men, And the hollow, terrible, earth-born smile of the child; The glitter of the sea-weed in the still night-time, And the lonely ship-window at midnight; The dark-green, glistening bark, and the white caps of the sailors, And the white, sickle of the harpooner, And the pale lips of the island-maidens Singing songs in the ear of the vast, gray-clouded island; And the loud, longings of the harbors and fords, And the songs of the islands to the sunward, And the waving of the grasses by the way-side, And the shrill, puny voices of the feathered people, And the loud-piping bells of the missions, And the feasting and the drinking after, And the sleeping and the walking up and down, And the hanging on the belts of the swabs of saplings, And the swinging of the sack-pipe in the circle, And the singing and the firing of the gun, And the noise of the waves and the singing and the running of the tide; All this I remember, but I do not remember The hazy, pleasant Summer afternoon, The blue meadows after rain, The burning sward and the moonlight and the white, wide-open windows of our kitchen; Nor do I remember the whitewashed walls and the peaked ceiling, Nor the books he had on his shelves, Jesus like, Nor the narrow, stifling bed, nor the sticks on the fire-place, Nor the door-way which led into the yard; Nor do I remember the old black-bearded man with the back-turned face, Nor the woman at the foot of the bed, Nor the bottle of scented sandal in her hand, nor the cock of the tobacco-pouch; But the smells of the perfume of the dried and the bruised lotus-wood, And the hot, damp air of the wide, open rooms, And the clanging of the bell-rope and the sturdy rope-hold, And the smack of the candle, and the hiss of the soap, And the rank, choking smell of it all, And the clatter of the ladle, and the loud, sneering laughter of the women-- I remember those. But all the rest, The noisy, smutty comedy and rompings of the comic entertainer, The rustic jests of the go-cart driver, the whacks on the head of the football, The high horse-laugh of the over-aged fellows at the comic sessions, The hearty laughing of the younger ones, the shouting of "Jesus Christ!... Joe!... dude!" All that I remember I saw on the screen of my eyes, And it all seems artificial, it all seems done in, I admit it all seems, in the word of Frankenstein. But I swear I am getting better and better at it all, And I hope I am as good as I hope to be soon. And my head now is fairly full; I see the lights of the city; I see the tall, narrow windows of the houses; And the lamps at the porches; And the gleam of the gas lamps; And the sweep of the street from my room window to the Pantages, And the full moon, and the palm trees, and the full moon again, As I turned to return just as it got to the Franklin Street corner. I see now the train begin to pull out, And the carriages starting up, And the engines starting and bellying, And the chuff of the snow-scooters; And I see the top of the skyscraper, And the smoke of the restaurant at the base of the skyscraper, And the trucks in the distance driving their weight of freight on, And the expressman getting on down there. And I see the track, snow-covered, And the wintry lights of the city, And the white of the hills flung across the sky, And the long reach from the North Stands End to the Northside Yards, And again the bend in the tracks, And again the rush of the train, And again I see the bend in the curve, And the engineer standing with a smile on his face, And I can hear him saying to the conductor, "Pull her over, And she'll do it dead-holt!" And the rush was dead-holt, And the celebrated Grand Central Parkway Rolled into view at last, And the curve of the track, straight as an arrow, And the weight and the sweep of the cars, And the sweep of the bridge, and the bend in the bridge, And the bridge railing as they neared the basin in the Hudson, And the loop at the basin in the Hudson, With the cars balanced and hung, And the curve of the basin in the Hudson, And the curve of the track again, And the white of the platform, And the wavy way down into the substitory, With the cars pulled down for the hill-fire period, And the smoke of the cars in the smoke of the fire, And the roar of wheels on the bridge-piers, And the clack of cleats in the yard, And the slap of the brakes, And the crack of the wheels against the surface, And the skater-like curve of the cars Looking like a boat with its white oars, And the swaying of the cars in the wind, And the cars half on one axle, And the cars with their axle-treads worn away, And the tip-over of one over the other, And the air like a ice-market, And the scrape of the wheels, and the whirling and flying of the cars, And the whirling and flying over of the tramp-ground, And the wild scuttle of cars over the sidings, And the clatter of the clock-spring as the car made a curve, And the skater-like curve of the cars, And the long reach from one Bridge to the other, And the swooping of the wheels of one over the other, And the roar of wheels on the bridge-piers, And the clatter of cleats in the yard, And the clack of the brake-chain, And the crash of a sledge on the bridge-piers, And the clatter of wheels, and the crash of a sledge on the sidings, And the clack of the cleats, And the clack of the skater-like curve of the cars. And I see a little girl sitting on the steps of the court-house, And I see the back-window of the court-house, And the front-way of the court-house, And the grey of the main-current of the rain, And the fall of the leaves of the sycamores, And the line of the fog in the fall of the leaves of the sycamores, And the line of the grove of the sycamores, And the shiver and cut of the lightning in the leaves of the sycamores, And the flash of the lumber of the sycamores, And the groan of the trestles of the sycamores. And I see the back-window of the court-house, And the sidings of the court-house, And the platform of the court-house, And the platform of the platform of the court-house, And the platform of the trestle of the court-house, And the platform of the sidings of the court-house, And the platform of the platform of the platform of the court-house, And the back-window of the court-house, And the front-door of the court-house, And the roof of the court-house, And the shingle of the tops of the pine-trees, And the rails of the fence of the court-house, And the railing of the platform, And the pulpit of the judge of the court-house, And the bench of the judge of the court-house, And the prisoner in the cell-port, And the bench of the prisoner of the court-house, And the prisoner in the court-house, And the bed of the convict in the cell-port, And the bed of the prisoner of the court-house, And the bed of the convict in the courtroom, And the mattress of the convict in the courtroom, And the mattress of the wagon of the convict, And the wagon of the prisoner, And the blanket of the convict, And the blanket of the convict's pillow, And the pillow of the convict, And the blanket of the convict, And the lodge of the convict-instructor, And the seat of the instructor, And the seat of the instructor of the court-house, And the seat of the prisoner, And the mattress of the prisoner in the court-house, And the mattress of the wagon of the prisoner, And the blanket of the prisoner in the courtroom, And the blanket of the prisoner in the cell-house, And the blanket of the convict-instructor, And the seat of the instructor of the court-house, And the seat of the prisoner in the court-house, And the mattress of the prisoner in the courtroom, And the grave of the dead one on the ox-team, And the grave of the dead one in the forest. And the bridge of the ox-team, And the bridge of the sledge, And the bridge of the mule, And the road of the deer-hay, And the slope of the heather, And the hazel-collie's han'kin, And the hazel-collie's thumping, And the homing cry of the hen-hawk, And the coughing of the root-bird, And the cocoa-nut's crunching, And the cacophonous chatter of the robin, And the caw of the wild-geese, And the blue jay's clacking, And the brush-sniff and rustle of the willow, And the swamp-dog's growl and lope and snore, And the rustle of the dew-thick breast of the pear-tree, And the rustle of the big-muscled muscles of the wrestlers, And the rustle of the straddle of the water-hen, And the rustle of the huge tussle of the steer-veterans, And the toss of the fight of the bull-rushes, And the toss of the wrestle of the yok-oh, And the scream of the wrestlers in the turnings, And the clap of the squeak of the wooden darts, And the crash of the clash of the wrestlers' pads, And the crash of the clatter of gloves, And the clamp of the stick on the hand of the opposition, And the firm thud of the head of the downed bulwarks, And the leap of the startled boy who sees what is coming, And the clash of the scrambled warrior's gauntlets, And the roar of the hands and the whistling and the groaning, And the jump of the wrestler in the leap of the wrestling mat, And the rolling and the swoop of the reeling and twisting, And the grapple of the arms and the struggling and the punching, And the thud of the rattled bulwarks by the wrestlers' hands, And the sigh of the wounded and dying and gasps for breath, And the struggling and the tossing and the fallings and the floundering, And the groans by the stretcher and the knees of the stretcher-man, And the lifting and lowering of the dead and the supporting, And the lifting of the dead by the stretcher-men by the beds, And the lifting of the dying by the nursing girls by the grates, And the knelt feeling for the pulse and the breathing of the victim of agues and fits, And the saving of the women and children and the tending of the weak ones, And the looking after of the freight and the setting of the nut from the tree, And the clearing of the fallow and hay-field and clover and corn-field, And the reaping of the harvest and the sowing of seed by the shepherd boys, And the barn-yard stillness and the loading and unloading of burdens, And the clink of the harness and the rattle of the scare-crow, And the tapping of the harness and tinkling of the bells, And the tramp of the team and the stamp of the foot-prints of horses, And the singing of the shepherds by the shearing-pond, And the piling in of the hay and the saving of the store-yard fowl, And the stench of the stable-yard and the stagnant water under the bridges, And the sweat of the harnessers and harnessed women, And the hissing and stink of the horses' high collars, And the sweat of the men that are treading on hot coals, And the dust of the stalls and the sweat of the harnessed people, And the quiver of arrows from the ears of the riders, And the heft and the straining of the horse's harness, And the wearing away of the harness and the horse's shoes, And the straining of the shoes of the riders, And the foot-prints of the riders' horses, And the stamping of the shoes of the horses, And the gallop of the team and the trot of the hinds, And the jolt on the jolt of the harness, And the jump of the harness and jolt on the jump of the horseshoes, And the crackling of the thongs of the harnessed multitude, And the thongs burst in the twisting and the turning, And the flying of the horseshoes by the flying multitude, And the flying horseshoes by the flying people, And the beating on the jolts of the heels of the horses, And the hoofs of the horses clattering, And the rush of the crowd in the turning, And the clapping of hands and the clamor of the people, And the driving of the coach and the whistling of the horn, And the smashing of the coach-wheels, And the tumbling of the waggons, And the trampling of the herds in the stalls, And the breaking of the waggons and tramples of the cattle, And the beating of the rollers on the flints, And the shouting of the drivers, And the clangour of the heavy iron-strakes, And the clank of the winches, And the whirr of the motor-cars, And the rattling of the hoses, And the hum of the compressor and compressor-equipment, And the droning of the vac-culpting machines, And the hiss of the sprinkler-plants, And the spraying of the vegetation, And the sough of the sprinklers, And the fanfares and the fan-fling of the fans, And the hum of the fans and the fans again, And the exhaust of the trains, And the noise of the engines, And the clatter of the trampling of trains, And the rattling of the winches, And the clangour of the motor-cars, And the roar of the motors and the motors again, And the watch that the watchmen keep, And the whirring of the motors and the motors again, And the clashing of the motor-cars, And the clack of the motors in their slumber, And the clash of the brakes, And the jolting of the motors driven by motors, And the sizzle of the motors driven by motors, And the sputter of the motors driven by motors, And the screeching of the motors driven by motors, And the grinding of the motors driven by motors, And the grating of the motors driven by motors, And the screeching of the motors driven by motors, And the donkey-loads of vegetables taken by motor, And the biscuits and sweetmeats of the factory, And the tea-fretted dishes of the factory, And the smoked meats and the curds and the whey, And the jam and the jellies and the preserves, And the sardines and casseroles and quilts, And the potato pies and salmonets, And the strong alcoholic drinks, And the cigars and the hookers and the betties, And the cocktails and the whiskers and the liqueurs, And the singing of the dancers, And the sopors and the ventriches and the peas, And the quilts and the damasks and the cabbages, And the ragouts and the fatigues and the roasts, And the pumpkin seeds and arrowroot seeds, With the corn on the heaps and the wheat in the sheaves, With the potatoes and cabbage and peas, With the barley and mustard and onions, With the turnip greens and pickles and rotes, With the suet and trotters and kidneys and bacon, With the onions and cabbage and liverwurst and giblets, With the turnip greens and bacon and he-newts, With the leeks and onions and bacon and vetchets, With the roots of the corn and potatoes and rapes, With the wilted greens of the greensward and the blue-bells, With the summer weeds and shrivell'd ferns and the harebells, With the tomatoes and relishes and relinas, With the pickles of the currant and the bergamot, With the relish-steeped tomatoes and relish-dills, With the relish-steeped cucumbers and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped turnips and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped carrots and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped turnips and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relishes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relishes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped relish and relish-caps, With the relish-steeped potatoes and relish-caps, With the sweet potatoes and sweet-caps and sweet-caps, With the turnips and currants and currant-caps and sweet-caps, With the plums and currant-plums and currant-caps and sweet-caps, With the currant-juice and currant-root and currant-root, With the grapes and currant-jelly and currant-jelly, With the currant-rind and currant-jelly and currant-jelly, With the currant-pie and currant-pop and currant-pop, With the currant-pop and currant-pie and currant-pie, With the juice of the currant and currant-rye, With the syrup of the grapes and currant-rye, With the syrup of grapes and sugar and honey, With the grapes of the peak and the clement and the vine, And the grapes of the road and the grapes of the plain, And the wine of the Wye and the Tweed, And the waters of Roughedog and of Rasedog, And the whey of the harvest and the new-grape, Have for me these things stored, and more They say will hereafter be for me. In a corner of the stable There is a corner for a glee, And a corner for a dress In a hawker's stalls there be, The stuff and the drink that's fit To please a giddy gale; And I'll be true to my Queen Ere the summer ends, or ever There are puddings and pies to be And a harvest cheer to be. There's plenty of times and places For a glee and a rout To get entertainment for nought, And we shall behold it all, A lucky omen's knell, And a knot of tinkers' bells, And a corner for a glee. There's more than enough of room For a dozen pipers twain, And time to get in a tune Ere the market day is come, And the cart comes or the truck, With a bin of trenchers yet From the country brought away. A clean fire and a comfortable bed A waft of air that's sweet and clean, A gracious fare, a cheerful face, A pledge of love and good cheer When the day is through, and the night's been, For the lass and the laddie's faced In the corner for a while. To sit in a corner and beg A corner to sit in later in, Till the market's open and come; To get a fire going and have good cheer For the lass and the lad, Till the suns set and the stars shine bright Till the night be on the laddie. I've had a chance to see A sparrow take its meal, An hour of counting grain, And hear the bagpipes blow Behind the plough at morn. The bagpipes blow Behind the plough at morn. The little yellow kids Have taught me many things, A way to fly a kite, And fly it high or low; They've taught me how to play At tug-of-war with the wind, And race it as a dog does, And go at watch with the moon. I like the little yellow kids, They're always trying new things, They've taught me how to ride a bike, And ride it off a cliff or sink; I've learned many things from them, I hope to learn them all from you, Little yellow kids. A hand-organ dance I know, They call it Scotch-tel-blob, A grand old feather-organ trick They call Prince Charmoff's Lark-a-watt. I hope to learn it soon, From the little yellow kids They say it's pretty clever. I hope to go to French Theatre, If I can get a coupon, To see old Turandie go wild, As he watches the deuce of people Dance to music's rhythm. I hope to go to French Theatre, If I can get a coupon, If I could always see, What's happening now, I'd learn all about it, From little eyes and noses. The little yellow kids Are always learning things, I hope to learn all they learn, From their yellow little eyes. Then there are the fine folks, Who work in arts and crafts, And make up a nice scene, In pink and green and white; They bring out ferns and flowers From places in Scotland, And put in everything right, From lovely Scotland. The day is merry, It's the perfect day, With plenty of time to play, And play it is rare. There's a merry lamplighter Who lights the lamps all night, And the fire grows brighter As he doth the candles, And one day I hope to be, As he is to-day. I wish to be the Mayor Of some good town in Scotland, And I would build a hall And keep a host of courtiers Who are fit for aught, Or to be a justice of Peace, In castles built in Fife, And castles built in water, Where the warriors of Scotland Drank so grand a stream. A rosy-cheeked child is Morgane, The flower of all the village, And through the quiet of the morning She plays with the buckram, Or with golden rods, Or builds ships of sail, Or builds sand-hagglers' boats, To steal the dancing Luna From Tithonus' fields. And through the day she dances Luna To the sounds of Boney, Or to echoes, Or to shrill winds piping, Or to low sea-birds calling, Or to many voices all saying As many pleasant things. Her friends and kinsmen know her well, And smile to see her go; Her guileless friends love her so That they refuse her home. Her father knows her too well, He bids her come no more To build his pond with loughs, Where, in summer-time, The daisies grow. They see her bent above her work, And smiling as she goes, She leaves upon the garden-wall A sweet memorial. Her childish faith in Man was great; Her faith in God is now. God help her in her lonely lane, And God bless old Morgane! Now from the white-walled courtyard comes the din Of winter's tillage, trimming, cutting down, The first clear morning after the storm. The frost is gone that blocked the coal-black road, The bare trees look strange in the dawning gray, But Robin is safe beside his saw, And Robin shall not lack for gainful work. The bare branches scrape against the brown Gray stumps and fallen trunks as they fall; The wind, that sifts through the bare trees like salt, Scrives frost into their dark, green hearts, And tips them into prickly bloom, Now that the woods are piling bare Bare branches on the windy hill, Where carts shiver and roofs collapse, Where men with battered cheeks are munching, The stars come out on heaven's rim, And hanging in a gossamer wreath, The wild apple hangs in the bough; The wind lifts it in his hand And says with mellow tongue, "I'll swing it to thee, sweet! "Sweet! sweet! I'll swing it to thee, O sweet! O sweet! And I'll say the word, sweet, O sweet! Sweet! sweet! O sweet! And thou shalt sing what songs so sweet, O sweet! O sweet! O sweet! O come to me, sweet! O come to me! O come to me! O come to me!" The summer comes, and all the birds are mute, And tents are silent on the mountain-side; The cawing rooks have stopped in their clamour mild, And the gray wolves' yelps have ceased to boom; The young fox wakes with quivering plaid, But 'tis the rarest of spring-time sounds, When she comes, rosy-cheeked and light, Down the dew-drenched lane, to meet her love. She comes, and all the way The bells are ringing shrill and low, As if the happy-happy tribe Were gathering for a feast of flowers; They have all gone from the meadow grounds, But, dreaming of her favor, The robin is set to sing, And the bluebird full of chiming; And now the jay, with mellow notes, Sings alone to woo her, And calls her, calling, Calling, And she has answered, And now in sportive mood She cuts short the long delay With, "I'm ready, I'm ready, I'll come to you, you only wait!" And now he shakes his quivering wings, Now she hath loosed her developing arms, And now they swarm around them both The moon upon the river, Flowing like a rainbow! Lights up the dewy flood, Brightens up the glistening waters! The fishes, darting, Trip and swim and flash and play in the waters; But what is that in the water? The moon, like a silver bell, Rings out to us! We hear, we hear, we hear! It stills the wild uproar Of the winter storm outside, But, oh, it calms us! The dark blue night, like a tranquil pool, Within it, lies a dream! In it the moon and her twin-rays shine, In it are wind-blown shadows played, In it shadows hide and bright forms show As if in an apparition; But, ah! it is a present dream! What is that, up above? What is that, down below? Is it the laboring earth? Is it the troubled sea? Is it the fire and brimstone air? Oh, it is the moon,-- The trembling moon! It was not long ago, In a summer's night, I stood at the edge of a wood, In a long familiar spot, And saw a glimmering moon On a bank of boughs that grew. And felt a tingling quietness In my heart, and a silence fill All the silent room where I was sitting. I only heard the birds a little calling, And the wind in the retired garden leaves, And felt a sweet security,-- A poignancy, coming from the moon, A joy sublime, that was not mine,-- And gazed into the silvery beam With a holy interest,-- The holy fool! The boughs above the wood Broke out into leaves again, The birds were silent in their singing, And a faint wind blew down south; But I only heard the quiet breathing Of the moon upon the water, And the slow spring coming in. Then sudden I arose and reeled, And went staggering down the stair, And stood by the window there. And all my being was cramped and bent And crushed to the shape of a shapeless lump, A dark pimple on the vanity Of the night, and a disappointment Worse than a sadness. But as I stood there leaning there, My senses caught the breath Of a strange music, wild and sad, And strange faces, moving through the gloom, And a vague terrible longing To touch and follow the light That broke over the water. A sudden gleam,-- A blaze that shone from the window high, Across the glittering evening sky, And waned slowly through the mist, Till it fell upon the night, In a silvery twinkle at the door. Then I crept to the door, And in the moonlight looked, And saw a witch with a ghastly wild look Standing in the moonlight, bending over A form lying on the floor, Its eyes closed in sleep. She smote her breast, And her blood ran cold, For there was grief and tears and pain, But she whispered softly to the air, And turned away, and fled. I lay for many nights A-dreaming of that scene, And now at last I know That the heart of a man must mourn The end of his mourning-dress, When he sees the wet rain fall, Upon the grave of his love. "In a roaring dawn, When the first star peeps, Ere the murmurous seeds In their cold sepulchres Uplift their rosy heads, I will cleanse my heart From the dust of dead years." "The body that is subject to death, Is a thing which cannot live." So spake the old Zeno, and then Dying he compiled his code, And weaved the dice which made the sun Which now among the nations, giving light, Is an everlasting ball. I like not your company, You cold and clinical; But if you'd join us here You'd be so gay. There's many a rake will sing For a sip of your wine; For your lips are warm and dear, You'd make each believe That a king was in your purse. Come o'er the sea With a burthen of loot, And we'll have a cup; 'Tis for a King Who's long dead And in Heaven watered. You that are hot and dry, We'll have another; For the frost of earth Bears no gold; And the sun that sets On our realm Wears a golden crown. There's a knight in the land Who hath a lion's skin; He scorns the showers And the winds that blow, And the sands at sea And the salt waves at the beach. He has hoarded much treasure, Yet he lives in splendour; For his strength is unbought, And his name is unknown; Yet men tremble and listen When he sings or speaks. He has many female lovers, Yet none have he heeded; Yet they come and live with him, And he doth eat and sleep; And he throws his golden words About his armour's lap. He it is who, when the sun Is danc'd by the sea, Or set by the moon, Or a cloud, on the wind's wrist, Comes softly from the west, And bears the light away, And we follow his voice. When the world was new, And scarce had passed From the old chronicle, In the old chronicle, We read the olden story, And in reading it, We, children of the days Of other ages, Find out the lessons Which our age must learn. We read the olden story, When it hurl'd on high At the towers of Troy, And the immortal Greeks Fought for years and years. But the shadows fall From off our brows, And the lessons we learn From the olden story, When the battle clouds are deep, And the thunders break, And the lightning flashes flame, And the tempest raves With wild gusts and gusts, In the darkness we hear A new song ring-- 'Tis the old eternal song, Of the men of old. When the battle waves are high, And the battle cries Are heard by the sun, And the thunder bellows Its awful voice along, In the darkness we hear A new light gleam-- 'Tis the old eternal light, Which doth shine on the dawn Of a new era. When the ships ride in sight, And the arms are all aflame With a noble light, Like a beacon light Which shall be night's light To the morrow dawn, In the darkness we hear A new song ring-- 'Tis the old eternal song Of the men of old. Dear, if I should meet you by the threshold of the post office, Or through the woods where we can walk together, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the ding-a-dong of the post-boy ring true, And you'd care to have a cup of coffee, I'd say, "Dear," and drink it. If I should meet you by the highway, Where the flags are blowing in the wind, And the dusty men are resting, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the road's so long and somber, And the rocks are very hard to climb, I'd say, "Dear," and smile at you, And think of another flower. If I should meet you in the shop, Or in some other public place, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the iron set on the anvil quiver, And no tool will seem to do the work, I'd say, "Dear," and look enviously at you, And think of another jewel. And if, in spite of all I would say, The bells should chimble "Ding-dong, dong," I'd think, perchance, that they chimed For joy, for sorrow, for you. I'd think of another song And another face, and another shine-- Of the days that were, and the days that are. If I should meet you in the street, By daylight or by evening twilight, I'd say, "Dear," and kiss your hand. And if the words that the bells chimed conveyed No hint of another touch, I'd say, "Dear," and keep my place at your side. <|endoftext|> On your brow my love Holds a crown Sweet as from me; But your lips, they are not for kissing. My love, do you hear? My love, you must not say me nay. My love, you must not say me nay. In the year that is gone by In the cold and raining The wind took your name And the leaves that were drying At the foot of the hill. Oh, it was dark and bright With the shines of the sun On the faces below. Oh, the wind took the leaves that were drying At the foot of the hill. The time is growing short And my birthday fast is past; Oh, the sun is fading slow And my love is away. My love, I will miss your smile And the words that you say; But I shall not be sad, my dear, For I shall not be sad. On the hillside in the frost The frozen branches shake And the wild wind wails aloud; But it is my birthday-day In the land that is far away. Oh, come back, my love, On the life-time again; Oh, come back, my love, You must not be sad. She was not mistaken, And in all that she said The faith was deep and true; For she promised with the voice That she loved me true. And the year that is past In the land that is far away With its singing summers, Where the sun shines brightly, Where the rain falls heavily, Where the wind wails aloud Is my birthday-day In the land that is near. The song of the lark at morn, The song of the thrush that breaks The silence of the night, In the room where I stay, With a faithful heart, And a hand that is free, Has comfort for me; For her heart is true To a faith that is fine. I shall never be weary Of the music of her mouth; Of the clasp and the caress That blesses and deifies. Her love, like a dream, Of beauty that is bright, In my mind as I lie Has promised pleasure for me. And the golden hour Comes on in the afternoon As sweetly as a dream. Oh, come back, my love, On the life-time again; Oh, come back, my love, You must not be sad. The little yellow flower That lifts its timid head And seems afraid to-day, Shall bloom in the sunny spring With all its golden hair. And the sweet boy and girl Who stole it from the ground Shall take it back to the place And make it a happy sign To tell other gardeners How nature can be beautiful. A loving mother takes her child To the place where it was blown; She looks upon the strange sky, The shadow of whose deep sleep Comes over the sleeping earth. She lifts the gleaming golden fish, The eyes so calm and deep, But they are not of the tender blue, And he does not seem to know it. She talks to him of birds, and he Is thoughtful and eager then. She listens to the rippling water And says, "The spring is sweet and fair. I'll go to the fair one soon." I dreamed last night that I was there With a lovely Queen, all alone. And we stood in the purple cloudland, And I caressed her golden head With my hand and caressed it, And I whispered in her quiet ears Words that are sweeter than words, Till I woke, and here I sit In the noon and the purple gloom. She who was queen of my delight Now comes in to claim her share; I see the roses on her lips, The pearl on her chin. She has made her nest where the sea beats On the sands, and she will sleep Cradled there till the high sun wakes And beats on the sea again. She has broken the nest that she made In the purple cloudland wide; And now she is sitting alone Where the salt waves have no might, Wasting her life and her beauty In a wasting sea. Oh! sweet are the hours that come Between the beating of the sea And the waking of the sun; And sweet are the hours that go Between the sleeping of the queen And the waking of the sun. In a valley of white and sapphire hills A red-eyed house lies waiting; The sun, descending, drips upon its walls And flushes the ivy-green of its moss. The tall house is not over tall to see, But it is very, very quiet, And all the land seems watching, waiting, To see the door that opens in its wall. There comes a whisper and goes a knock, And a man treads out of a distant land. The door swings slowly, and there comes a cry, And a tall lad limps in, half seeing, With a face like a deathless poem. His eyes are big with the shining of fate, His hair is whiter than the dying ember Of a star unafraid to fade. He walks to the door and shuts it quick, And stands proud in the light Of the sun and the glory of the day, His face a grave deep carved in the brow. But suddenly from the gathering light The man's eyes drop, and he stoops and clutches The doorpost with a pale and shaking hand. The door opens, and a lady, clad in white, Sinks with a grace and ease. Her eyes are dark with the night of the world, But her face is bright as a woman in her prime. The lady stops at the door; she looks at the man; She looks at the white-walled valley of stone. She looks at the red-eyed house, and turns away; And she enters, though it seems to her a still place, And she leaves the door open; and the sound Of her locking and unlatching the door And the tread of her coming and going Becomes a moving tide of music. In a windy tower in the old Rhine town There is a workman building a house. He hears a noise of work in the distant streets, And the clink of the metal in riverbeds; And there comes through the noisy air a wind of music. Like the roar of a river on which rain is falling Came the cry of a street like a sea breaking; And he thought of the gleam and the sweep of night surf Under the black-bonneted moon, and his tower dreary, Hitting against the wet and swinging wall, Swept by the wind of music in the rattle of ships. The water flows on its silvery way In the Rhine stream. It winds along the hillside, and arrives In the castle courtyard. In the valley, the men sit and drink, And the women sing and laugh; They fill their heads with vain desire Of the wine that makes men wise. But in the tower, there is only one Who sits and thinks. He frowns at the walls he has raised, And at the grey stone floor, And he snaps his fingers to show the creaking door. A woman's voice sings in the courtyard: "It's all in the wiping-tub!" In the house where they are gathering The grey stone dust, A wind shakes the windows and sweepeth Up the loose hangings. I hear the clatter of a hand And the click of a bolt, And the heavy tread of a horse Ringing the walls; But no man passeth his castle. A sailor's corpse floats on the Rhine, His eyes are still Open in a smile upon his face, A hawk flies from a cliff on the Rhine, He fluttereth and flutters away, And a lad is sailing on the Rhine, With sails that bring him To land beyond the stile. Three times in the night of a winter's eve A woman crosseth the walls of a town. From her room in the work-house how she tolls: "Bring the wine, bring the wine!" Three swift men arrive at her chimney-niche, With cups that shake and glitter, And a buzzing and steaming song Of the Rhine in their ears. The men pass through the city gate, They pass among the slumbering people; But the woman still to the bell Sings like a blood-hound in the night: "Bring the wine, bring the wine!" And the chimney-smoke grows red and heavy, And the Rhine water reddens, As the woman still to the bell Sings in the town alone: "Bring the wine, And shame unto the Franks!" I was wakened by a furious knocking, And a man shouted in my ear: "Come to the palace, dark Bishop Amory. He will give thee all things in service, He will give thee grace and riches." But the bell was already knelling And so I hastened away. The grey dust whirled upward, round and round, On the Forum's dusty quarters. At the curb of every marketplace A slave stood with a pair of scythes, And at the gate a men-at-arms Went with a halberd and a helmet. In the courtyard of his palace, From the doors by the torches lit, I hurried to the bier of the Apostle For the letters of Peter and of Paul. But the torches were extinguished, And no man answered to my knocking. I entered the dome with my flashlight, And I found the sealed book in a chest. But no book was there whose pages had faded; But the red flame ate through the cover, And the ink dry and old, And I saw the writing of St. Ignatius, And the words, "I love the Lord." All the Fathers of the Church, All the luminaries of the Visitation, All the martyrs who remain, The penitents who grieve, And all the monks in their vigil, Are gathered here in a solemn council. What is the reason for this gathering? What is the meaning of this lighting? Silence for all. And the City sleeps, And its lamp, the Torch of London, Lights not the venerable roofs, Nor the placid river, Nor the peaceful Prussian hills, Nor the quiet cloister. Silence for all. But the humble peasant's huts Shine in the tranquil night, And the peasant women bare-breasted, Wear out the midnight in song. All is silent in the city. Only the chimney, Vanish, Like a phantom, Round and round it soars, It a phantom seems, For it sweeps the streets, A hideous spectral phantom. It is as bad as the Devil, As the Devil is bad, But no one meets the evil spirit With a stone in his hand. It comes in shoals before the people, With a shriek that puts the peaceful houses To flight, And it shrieks, and it howls, and it screams, And it shakes the homes. It the people fear; It the people dread; It the people love, But no one loves the evil spectre, For it kills the people. It frightens the harlots; It the harlots dread; It the harlots love, But no one loves the evil spirit, For it kills the love. Love is brother to fear, Thou canst not love the evil spirit, For it kills the love. Mephistopheles. I must confess to you, When a child I worked for hire, And worked as much again for money, As any workman could; For it's the common lot of men, And the work of all, To earn his bread with his sweat, And that of his body too. Faust. I'd rather work for nothing at all, If I had the work of the devil, And that is to curse, flatter, lie, To say or to think, A foolish, filthy thing, Till the day death takes me. Mephistopheles. I know, of course, that you cannot do it. You'll be too old to rule, And too young to serve, And your work is too hard for a man like you, And too sacred for a goat. But if you curse, flatter, lie, You may well keep on, And get rich doing it. Mephistopheles. It's a good, high job, no doubt. You see, the world is full of babblers, And men like you are nowt. What a pity, then, we don't see more of them, We, myself included, Who work so hard for nothing more Than the pleasure of being at work. Here's good beer; don't mess about with that. Here's good beer here, as well as here, In the can, Not the glass. You can't drink that, you dare not drink that, You cannot drink that, You must not drink that. You dare not drink that. What does this drink, here, have in it? What does it have, what is it made of? What does it smell like? What does it taste like? What does it look like? What does it burn like? You can't drink that, you dare not drink that, You cannot drink that, You must not drink that, You must not do that, You'd better leave that. You'd better leave that, Go back to that. What does this drink, here, have in it? What does it have, what is it made of? What does it smell like? What does it look like? What does it burn like? What does it look like? What does it burn like? You can't drink that, you dare not drink that, You cannot drink that, You must not drink that, You must not do that, You'd better leave that. You'd better leave that, Go back to that. The very strong drink is bitter to drink, And the strong drink can change your life, And you'll be living upon a different earth Before you know it, With a different you. So, when you see people passing with great wine, And they talk and they jest, Just think of us, poor simple dupes, Who only know to drown with the tears our sorrow And to cuddle our pain, With a brew like that. And they take it away with a song, And they toss the tokens, And we're thinking about the tokens, And we're also thinking about the song, And we're also shaking, And we think of the joy that we won't get, Of the luck of being born. In the London streets they're ringing a knell For the dead, who have gone before, Who have gone before, and who are coming On abreast, Who will come behind. But the long, cold, cold street of the dark sky Has a yawning open heart And it knows The love that we never shall know, And the deep open heart Cares for the waiting one. And we think of the grief that will come When the long, cold, cold street of the dark sky Shall be empty, and the heart it knows Shall open then, And the open heart say It is spring! A song for the few who are left us, For the few who are left us Who are young and who are still And who have never learned to fall, And who have never known how far We are fallen, And who have never stayed To listen, and to know That the great drops come, And the tall grasses bend, And the skies are always blue. And a song for the few who are left us, For the few who are left us Who will never sing again And who have never learned to pray, And who have never learned how well We pray, And who have never learned that we Knowledge of sorrow and sin And the secret of weeping well. For they are shut out of the hall of feasts, For they are shut out of the hall of feasts, And the tall white walls are frowning on them With a silent judgment. And they sit in the darkness, and they ponder, And the darkness has a life of its own, And the silence has a past, And the darkness shall prevail. But there is a hand where the darkness rests, And a voice that shall guide them, And a voice that shall gladden them As the grasses gladden the dark earth When the night is over. For the voice of the earth is calling to them, In their day of trial. Oh! be with us, Lord, be with us, Lord, Though our paths be strewn with the broken Shepherds of the world and night, Still our hearts are unbowed, still our feet Are steadfast. For thy heart is unwearied, and thy word Is as the evening-star, and the earth Is restless. We are but petals blown from the sun's throne, We are but fragments of a word's feather, Yet we are all that the word has been, And all that the world may be. For our life is but as a watch, a span, And our fate as a life. They cannot take away our joy, They cannot take away our day, Nor extinguish our hope. Nor can the night o'erpower our faith, Nor the gathering shadow live. Though the hour may be dark, and our day As dark. They cannot curb our hope nor dim our trust, Nor shake our constant hope. Only ourselves can curb our joy; Only ourselves can slay our faith. And our trust and our joy but serve To keep alive our watch. Still the same law, still the same Lord, Whose peace is everywhere. Still the same help, still the same Reward, Our faithful Father. Through faith and hope and patience, Lord, We seek thee still. He takes the wrongs our steps have trodden, And the crosses unnumbered Of deepest grief and weakest hope, And he mingles them with perfumes Of roses ever green, And with songs of angels ever singing, And with genial rains that fall On thorn, and flower, and green, and hoary, And he mingles them with sweet, healing balm, In a well of life that every day Shall brighten into morning. He takes all wrongs our steps have crossed And all sorrows, crosses, tears, And he blends them all with perfumes Of roses at their best, And with balm of healing balm that falls From the deep heart of Jesus still, And with heavenly showers that fall On thorn, and flower, and green, and hoary, And he blends them all with healing balm, In the well of life that every day Shall bless and heal. So we leave our old destruction And enter into more peace and rest, And we enter into a higher and purer love, And we leave our old destruction And enter into more peace and rest. Oh, what a battle was fought and lost At York, and what a slaughtering hand Was laid in bloody hand before The beautiful clear-cut and smiling Plains That stand between old Cairo and the sea Of Sinai! What a triumph for England and her Fox And his knavish crew, and what a wrench For us, the burning, restless ones, who bear The yoke we hold! And we left those sons of Sodom smitten And crying, But to-day we meet them once again In the sweet, calm peaceful walks of home Where we are free From the yoke of crime, the blighting night, The heathen fear. And the Sabbath bells tolls of their home In the land where our fathers died For our dear homeland. And we have fresh flowers to wear And we gather them and smell them, And we stand in awe before them And we bless them, and we dare to say How fair they are, And how God's own hand of wonders Have formed and guided all. And we walk in sunshine and rest Beneath our trees, And our hearts grow calm and strong in The sweet, safe rest, And the joy of life grows sweet and strong And our faces brighten with peace, And our eyes grow bright with peace. There's music in the lilac tree And evening in the golden hour, And green things in the garden creep In the shadows cool; But the white lilies of the meadow Are glowing as if the dew Had not been dried. Oh, my beloved, my own, my wife, My one delight, I can never repay your love with love, You gave for love alone; But, oh, you have enriched my life with love, My earthly life with peace, And my heart will break in gratefulness If I could repay your love. There's music in the lilac tree, For the red singing-shoe that once was mine Is shining with the bright blood-red. There's evening in the golden hour, And green things in the garden creep, But the white lilies of the meadow Are glowing as if the dew Had not been dried. When Spring has gone And red, red roses Flower over the wall, I shall sit in the quiet room Where my husband sleeps, And a light hand-me-down Will place beside me In that safe, still room. So it will be One less thing to do, But I'll sit here and mind the quiet room And think how glad I am That one is here to bring me love, And love again. All day the shawl was wool by the weaver's hand Tied up the different colours in her liking; At night she let it float across the stars; When old Elvar slept, she knotted the shawl up. Then she laid by the fire a bed of snowy white In snowy white was she, The days were sweet, the nights were cool, The wind did blow; When I was first a bride The summer before I came to Anster was the best, I had my honey-moon in Bracondaw. When first I came here It was a strange place, it has changed quite, you know. The miller stopped making hay, the fish-frys stayed shut, And the old folks had come back to town; But now they all come out of the retired way, And sit and talk about the times they had here. There was a stranger, A slender man, came here, And stood by the water side; He had on a bath-coat and a scarf o'er his face, But no hat; And when he saw us he bowed and smiled, And then vanished out of the land. There was a tailor, A fellow named Bump, Who went a-tuning all day long, And with no end of sobbing; He declared that the Tun Tavern could not get no better For a belt or a cravat; And so he said, but nobody believed him. And there was a baker A fellow named Jack, Who, with his very long spoon, was just as busy as if he'd got to keep a dairymaid; And to see what he could do with a brooch or a ring, He baked them all day long. There was a rich merchant A fellow named Vellum, Who with his staff was so careful you would have said That he was the worlds most excellent man; He made such a rush for our table that we could not serve Our wine and ale through the dining-room, He hurried by with his flask, And said that the wine must be drunk before we could dine. There was a ship's carpenter, A fellow named Jack, Who built the ship's carins as fast as he could think of, And they all said that his work was the best that they'd ever seen; He had a great show-run ship that he called his "Titanic," And the whole sea-gang, from the Devil to the small sharks, All swore that the ship would sink, And they chased her with hoots and whistles all through the sea. There was a country bumpkin, A fellow named Bill, Who, every day, would drop his tools and run And fetch them again, and run again, and ask them where They had put the plumb-line; He never had caught a fish with those old ragged tools, But folks said that he could soon make them crack. There was the country bumpkin, And his wife, and their little son, and a basket of apples, And nothing to do but to let them have their fun, And laugh and talk, and sing and dance, And make them empty their garrets and chase each other And chase the boy, and give it a name; And they called it "Ruth's Dozen." There was the country bumpkin, With a humble heart and no noble name to hide, Who, every day, when the market was empty, Was glad to buy a few drachmas of bread And eat them, too, with beer or schnapps, And, if the market was not quite so bare, He bought some cabbage and potatoes To put in his pockets. There was a country bumpkin, And he was born in a log, Who, every day, from his neck to his feet, Was blued all over, And had his clothes made all too tight For his tall feet. There was a country bumpkin, And he walked every day With a limp, And wore a round face all the time, That was neither grin nor frown, And looked as wan as his coat. There was a country bumpkin, And a dish of beans he carried, And a basket of potatoes, But a knife to cut them with, And a basket to put them in. There was a country bumpkin, And from all he had, he was glad To get a piece of bread, And a piece of cheese, Which he thought would not do; For he was sure he could find them On a little country bumpkin. There was a country bumpkin With a long face to see, Who sat and gave the potatoes a bath, And he washed his hands to-day, And he dried his face with the hair On his potatoes all day. The country bumpkin had thought of a name For his long round face, And, every day, he called his face "Old-back," And this was the name he suggested: "O, I am old-back, I'm as old-back as ever; I'm old, and as stiff, And I'm as wan as an old woman." There was a country bumpkin, And he was a gipsy man, And he was neither shy nor bold, But as he went home each day He had a funny look on his face As he walked through the village. There was a country bumpkin That stood by the way-side With his mouth wide open, And the sunshine on his face Like swine's fat; And he wouldn't say a word, But people wondered What he would bite. There was a country bumpkin Who had as many teeth As the dirt would hold, But his speech was not so fast As the dirt's is; And he didn't bite A word that was said to him. A country bumpkin lived a mile away From the Devil's den, And the road that led to his back Was a bad road to-day; For the sun was hot And the tall grasses wet And the big white hail and thunders wet Had a funny after-effect On the funny country bumpkin. There was a country bumpkin That a black-bitch had clutched And fed with suck from her milking-pail; And he was hard of hearing And quite mute of mien, But his teeth were not so hard As the black-bitch's are; And this was the weirdest country bumpkin That ever met man: The man's eyes were as sharp As a fox's are sharp, And a sharp pain in his head As a prick in a rat. And he went about As a stiff dog goes In a barnyard on a stony meadow; But, when at home he was, When the heat of work he had overgone, He would shake His head And laugh With a man's dry deadness. There was a country bumpkin That went out to beg In the fields, and beg in the streets For scraps of bread; And it seemed to his neighbours As if he were squeaking His song to have effect. There was a country bumpkin That they gave a piece of bread To if you gave a piece of bread; And, if you gave him a cup Of water, he asked with chiding If you had any more. There was a country bumpkin That lived in a hole in the ground, And there he was glad As the lark is in his nest When the day's cares are o'er. He had no anxieties Or dread of any disaster As he glided In safety In the hole in the ground. There was a country bumpkin That nobody ever saw, For nobody had seen him Unless it were that somebody Might see him in his slippers Sitting on a golden perch By a golden light; And, having seen him there, They would dare not question him As to his name, or his age, Or where he came from. There was a country bumpkin That never had he been, And when they asked his name, He only had to say, "I'm Bob," For nobody ever had heard The name of this country bumpkin, And nobody had ever heard The name of this country bumpkin. There was a country bumpkin That ate no bread or meat, And lived on milk and water; And, if they gave him a crumb, He swore that he had had more Than he could eat in one day; And, if they gave him a bite, He said, "I had more than that" When, all to well, they gave it him. And there was a country bumpkin That had learned to build him a house, From shingles of pine and from boards Of willow, and he would stand A country bumpkin's-brow and frown As if it were the highest place In all the world, and say 'T was no use for Countrymen To go about boasting how They builded a house like a mountain With a garden that would feed the sheep And a barn for to shelter the swine. There was a country bumpkin That grew olives in a bin; There was a country bumpkin That growled when you spoke to him; There was a country bumpkin That would sit and whistle and pipe When the barn was full of grain And the swine were safe inside; For the Country-man's an idiot, and Builders a gang of rovers. And the Country-man's wife Was mad at the Country-man; And the Country-man's son Was mad at the Country-man; And the Country-man's daughter Said, "O my soul, what is the matter?" And she said to the Lady "This Country-man's mean-somethings Are far beyond language!" There was a Country bumpkin That had three con gressos; And the Lady herself, A Country bumpkin, Was the only one That couldn't stand him. And she said, "O my soul, What is the matter?" And she said to the Country bumpkin, "This Country bumpkin's gibes Are quite beyond measure!" I had been out to take a walk When all of a sudden I fell And rolled a sound of thunder Upon my back. And they thought that I was dead And buried all as good As a zombie did in the story books; For many days they waited On a broken watch, But they could not lift the weight That covered me over. They could not lift the weight Of me in my disarray From top to toe, From head to feet; I was as stubborn as the lawn, As they knew, And I showed them how they lay Wind and dirt and flame All over me. The wind has shifted its course, And now it drives the snow Down upon our roof. But I'm stronger than the wind, And I'll mend the roof-pane; I'll make it strong and sound, For I have talent And I've worked for one Who had talent For much more than this. My father was a Country bumpkin That lived upon the moor, And he was a Country bumpkin That died yesterday; And I'd like to think that I'll keep Like him, a Country bumpkin Loving every man Who comes to me For shelter. There was a Country bumpkin That would not stop At any price to feed The beggar that came to call; But every day he gave As if he was his friend, And the man that sought him bread Was the same that sought The man that loved him well. There was a Country bumpkin That fed his wife And kept his land from weeds; The naked trees stood there Where the Country bumpkin Stood and watched them work. The Country bumpkin who Got his living well By his living wife Had hewn in such a way As she might well know He'd what he had earned Lay by let it be. And they called him Country bumpkin Because That was his habitation; And he liked to be known As good as gold for gain, For he was a Country bumpkin That worked for gain By keeping time as well As any man that lived. The woman that has two hands Is like a country bumpkin That's round and flat; She's like a country bumpkin That lives alone And knows no man. The woman that has two hands Has a way of working As though she had been made As she would work alone And is no wife. And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's made of brass, And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's all brass. And all she can do Is to eat and drink, To sing and tell her troubles And have her fill. A country bumpkin and his wife Made all of copper, And the look on her face when she knows That she has been fed Is a look that she will not wear When she's alone. And he calls her Copper Myrtle, And a Country bumpkin Is a bumpkin a mile; A country bumpkin and his wife Are two-and-twenty. They were out working one day, And they fell down some stairs, And they hurt their toes; And they were starving, you see, And they lay down to sleep. But they woke up and danced, you see, And they danced up and down In a circle all around In the street, in a town. They danced up and down the street And they danced so well, And the bumpkin and wife Made all of copper, And the woman that has two hands Is like a country bumpkin That's round and flat. And she dances up and down In a circle all around In the town, in a city. And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's made of brass, And they call her two-and-twenty Because she's all brass. And now they have to go And they'll get a bigger house And a bigger mine. For they danced up and down In a circle all around In the city, in a town. I have a father who is a king, I have a mother who is a queen, And three sisters who are more than kings, And four brothers who are queens in purse, And five brothers who are kings in store, And six sisters who are queens in hair, And seven sisters who are kings in bread, And eight sisters who are queens in cloth, And nine sisters who are kings in wine, And ten sisters who are queens in meat, And eleven sisters who are kings in honey, And twelve sisters who are kings in treasure, And thirteen sisters who are queens in silk, And fourteen sisters who are queens in spinsters, And fifteen sisters who are kings in beauty, And sixteen sisters who are kings in plants, And seventeen sisters who are queens in bees, And eighteen sisters who are kings in birds, And nineteen sisters who are kings in fish, And twenty-one sisters who are kings in hay, And twenty-two sisters who are kings in corn, And twenty-three sisters who are kings in haymow, And one sister who is a king in ice, And one sister who is a queen in snow, And one sister who is a king in grass, And two sisters who are kings in ferns, And three sisters who are kings in bark, And four sisters who are kings in roots, And five sisters who are kings in flowers, And six sisters who are kings in furze, And seven sisters who are queens in locks, And eight sisters who are kings in webs, And nine sisters who are kings in grass, And ten sisters who are kings in blossom, And eleven sisters who are kings in honey, And twelve sisters who are kings in sap, And thirteen sisters who are kings in wine, And fourteen sisters who are kings in stemms, And fifteen sisters who are kings in veins, And sixteen sisters who are kings in veins, And seventeen sisters who are kings in veins, And eighteen sisters who are kings in veins, And nineteen sisters who are kings in veins, And twenty-two sisters who are kings in marrow, And twenty-three sisters who are kings in marrow, And one sister who is a king in bark, And two sisters who are kings in blossom, And three sisters who are kings in blossom, And four sisters who are kings in blossom, And five sisters who are kings in blossom, And six sisters who are kings in blossom, And seven sisters who are kings in blossom, And eight sisters who are kings in blossom, And nine sisters who are kings in blossom, And ten sisters who are kings in blossom, And one sister who is a king in sap, And two sisters who are kings in heart's blood, And three sisters who are kings in marrow, And four sisters who are kings in blossom, And five sisters who are kings in heart's blood, And six sisters who are kings in blossom, And seven sisters who are kings in heart's blood, And eight sisters who are kings in blossom, And nine sisters who are kings in blossom, And ten sisters who are kings in blossom, And one sister who is a king in corn. The moon, like a queen, Lifted up her lily silver, With her good looks and sweetness met; And the poet sang the noble swan, And I dreamed a golden rosebud fell; For a bell in the west began to ring-- The poet sang the noble swan, And I heard a golden cymbal crash. The moon, like a queen, Looked down upon the lake, With her sweet looks and her majesty, And the poet sang the noble swan, And the poet sang the noble swan. To the south, like a queen, Looked on the field of Mars, And the poet sang the noble swan, And the poet sang the noble swan. Gazed on the far hills to the south, And the poet sang the noble swan, And the poet sang the noble swan. In a sunny green glade Where soft winds sang, The poet sang the noble swan, And a golden rose fell down. "Queen moon, thine is far bigger Than my breath is big; And in thine is a power Far, far beyond our human, A mighty power." "I'll shake my bells of gold, And of light the darkest, And of love I'll make a moth, The fiercest of them all; And of my heart make a fever, That burns and consumes." "And I'll kiss away thy light, And quench thy heat before I burn thy heart in thine, Wilt thou not smile on me? I am not fair and young As I should be." "Then lift up thine eyes, sweet queen, And see what I can be; And draw thyself away From those far, fair hills of Mars, And let thy pretty feet Unto my shining arms Dive deep into mine arms, And thy soft mouth in it Lofty place take." "Fair thief, and pinchable, Take up a pin from off thy wrist, And pinch me full of blushes, And see my rosy blushes, And take the warm kiss of me; And steal my heart in thine arms, And fling it to the winds Till winds do fly it over The fields where grapes grow sweet; And thou mayest break the grapes, And leave the harmless worm To drink the juice of him. And, fair thief, thou shalt have The warm kiss of me." "Ah! Puck, thou dunce of creatures, In this year's masque of baubles, Thou art as fat as herdsman John, Or trencher-bearded Heraclitus; Ay! more than wise-mouth'd Anaximander, Or herdsman John with trenchers of John. Take then a crown of hayseeds, And drive me hence to wells of millet, And lend me voice to Samian numbers, And paint on Flemish vellum Things to touch the soul with awe, Such as no man hath sung before." "And if that thou wilt make friendship With the strong-hearted Ganges, Then let the Ganges bathe his knees, And whisper in the princely waters; Then let the Ganges take from thee A crown of cedar-wood, And trees of gold that shoot acorns, And bind them on thy head with slashes, And spread them on a bed of snow; And make thee gay a garland, And let the Ganges breathe in clouds Over thy head in evening; And let the Ganges suck the dew From off the grass upon the plain, And bind him with a blue tassel That drops all day upon him." "Go, little book, and bless my reading, And say, when thou shalt write my name, That I have lived a pleasant life; Go, thou small gift, and write my name, And say, when thou shalt draw my picture, Thou didst make a faithful friend." Go, little book, and bless my reading, And say, when thou shalt bow and smile, That I have lived a goodly life; Go, thou small book, and say my prayer, And say, when thou shalt knead my pancake, That I have worshipped thee with thanks. And when thou hast made me a crown, And written my name upon the cake, If that be all that's able to save The fragment that the book doth leave, Then let the little god of Egypt Take care of it, and make it fair." "If the little god of Egypt Will give me one hour of his time, I'll come back and live with thee, And knead thy pancake, and bake thy pies, And bless thy small brown books and sweet; And when I come again, I'll go And live with thee and cook thy pancake, And bless thy small brown books and sweet; And when I come again, I'll go And live with thee and cook thy pancake, And bless thy small brown books and sweet." "Why, Dolly, my dear, I'm sorry, But you've cut the dish I wanted; I'm hungry, Dolly, I'm burning, I want thy honey and thy pie. Can't you give me some parting delicacy? For, Dolly, I must eat my fill, Before I go to leave thee, love, Before I leave thee, love, Within thy little hand, Within thy little hand." "Then let me fill my pretty mou' just, And when I go to leave thee, love, I'll say 'Farewell, for I will' to thee, Within thy little hand, Within thy little hand." "Well, well, Dolly dear, I cannot refuse you; I'll leave you, and I'll come again to dine with you, If you will take the pie and the honey-biscuit." "Oh, Dolly dear, it is not hard to give; I've baked them just like you want them, love. I'll take them, thank you, and will leave you, If you will take the pie and the honey-biscuit. I cannot eat the honey-biscuit, Dolly dear, For, Dolly, I should like to eat you, If you would take the pie and the honey-biscuit." "I cannot give you everything, dear, I've only got a little more; I'll take the honey-biscuit, Dolly dear, But now I must go, for I've watched too many ducks, And I've got to go, For I've watched too many ducks." "Oh, Dolly dear, you are so wise, And Dolly always is wise; I've often prayed her to tell me how To pass my time away pleasantly; And how to make the most of my pup, For I've had him long, And I've got to go, For I've watched too many ducks, And I've got to go, For I've watched too many ducks." Dolly looked so beautiful and sweet, With her little wings of snow, I would fain have stayed and talked to her, But I flew on like a soaring hawk, To meet my dear one-eyed fighter, The last of all my flock, The proud and proud ruler, my Dolly, The one-eyed leader of my brood, The reigning monarch, my troop, The glory of my blood, The glory of my line. I've known by mark and call How they have vied and striven, But I dare not ask their names, So I will leave the answer to you, The mother of my one-eyed champion, The proud and proud ruler, my Dolly. Dolly's heart was like a balloon, Her spirit was as great, As she told me her wondrous story, Of how she soared to the skies, And how she used me so well, But now my time is up, my turn is come, To say good-bye, my turn is come, To bid you good-bye, my turn is come, Good-bye, my home, my mother, my dame, My life, my world, my all, my all. In the green and pleasant days of old, When the Spring comes forth with her lovely face, And the Summer is full of the music That rhymes in the sun with the gentle rain, And the woods are full of the laughter and shout That rises when the squirrel shouts his cheer, I often think of the days that are flown, And of the fights that I have now with my own heart, In the place where I was reared in a village-- A tiny village, all of the past is gone, It is not to return any more. The place is full of the smell of pine trees, The fields are overgrown with grasses, And I stand on the spot where I had strife, Sore troubled in heart, and full of sorrow, The joys that I had I cannot recapture, The pain that I had I cannot forget. But I think of the things that were, and I call To the little circle of friends that were dear, And I say, "For I hold on to the dear things, And the friendship that was if there be none, For I fight alone against the great world-woes, And would not have you go." And I think of the laughter and the glee Of the days when I was not on my guard, Of the times when the school was a palace of joy, Of the times when the lessons were of the best, Of the times when the friends were all mine--and then I think I would fall on my knees to beg of you To fight for the friends that are not there now. And I cry to the old beloved place, That waits with a smile to receive me when I come, To help me when I am wounded on the way, To strengthen me when I am sorely tried, To bear my burdens if I but beg of you, To walk through the dark lonely places with me. And I think of the time when I was young, Before I had known wrong, or heard the cry Of the stricken that they must betray their tears Or the heart that is all their own no more. The old familiar places in me burn With the sweet memories that come with the future, And my heart is in the past with a tear in it For the friends that I lost by the way. And I call on the gift that I have known, With the soft touch of a willing hand, To wipe away the stains of the heart's deceit, And purge away the evil with a prayer. I look at my hands and I see the scars Of the blisters that I played with so long ago, And I ask of my fate, with a sob in me, To find the friends that are not there now. "Pray," said the spirit, in low haunting tones, As it drew near, and hung at the door, "Pray, if you love him, that he find the way To the land of the Yazzies, and regain The happiness that was once his own. If he has found the way and never ventures there, Why prolong the pain? Why fight a losing battle? "If he goes to that land and never comes back, To the place where the griefs and the doubts and the fears Have grown like snow on the brow of the aged sinner, Let him seek the unknown land, but with the blessing, Blessing, of the friends that are not there now. Let him return, and is satisfied with his pain, And the old acquaintance watches beside him the day through, "As a bride to the wedding may I go, In the flush of a new happy season, And at the close of a brief but rich love story Give one short, sweet, final, hopeful kiss? Or am I only a gray visitor from the past, To argue, and to lament, and to tell stories, And to ask if my wife still loves me?" A bridegroom is a good man when he is true, And a bad man, that does not love his bride. A bridegroom is a bad man when he lies, And a good man, that does not love his bride. There is no living upon the earth like dying, There is no earth anywhere in the universe. And man was born to be dying, that we might live. And the bridegroom knows that he shall not return to her, Till the dying place be filled, and the grave be ready. And so he stays all day, and his tears run down like rain. And at night he dreams that he is walking down the aisle, And around him are brides on either side to receive him. In the first there is an aged woman, A strange shawl is round her face, And she kneels down to wash her hair, And her hands are wet with the rain. In the next there is a girl whose eyes are gray, Who waits patiently till he shall come, And holds out her hands to him. And the third has been turned into a flower, And trembles and looks like a rose. There are shadows everywhere, There are things to see, things to be done, And there are people to speak to, And tests to pass, and decisions to make, And mistakes to teach, and flowers to pluck, And pleasure to fake, and tears to shed, And the path to be trod, and the goal to reach. There are troubles of every shape and size, There are persons to fail, and persons to lead, And opportunities to waste. There is much to do, but no time to lose. "You have been very kind this half-hour, And I could stay and help you if I wished. But I must change my plans. The Northland, Like all the country, lie within A broad and melodious season, And its seasons will not be diverted Till Lent and Advent and the Season of Roses. I shall take the road to France, and thence Make my way to Bordeaux." "I am going to Boston. I shall find The friend I left there. And I shall go To Paris, and thence be fast asleep In Bordeaux, where my ship will be next Monday morning, sailing from Bordeaux." There is much to say, much to be done, Much of Life to know and interpret, Much of Sleep to obtain, and much to dream, Much of Water to cross, and much to Drink. And of every kind of shore to have The best, the worst, the very dust to breathe. And much to see, and more to take our eyes Home to our native Land of Always Now. I lift the latch, and can drag the ship, I lift the lever, and can steer her, I see the sparkplugs in the plugs Of the great condenser, and the tappets Of the regulator, and the coils and plates And the gauges and all the wires and wheels And the great funnels with their bladed elbows And the great chimneys, and the great fountains Of smoke, and the great pillars, and the great And moving sidewalks, and the changeable lights That follow the swarming city with graceful strides. I see the ceaseless roaring of the seas, The shifting of the weather topsails, The flashing of the spars, the bending of the docks, The blue ball of the passing cloud that drips With the salt of the ocean. I see it all, and my heart grows still At the magnificent variety Of the scenes. I am filled with a desire To take my camera, and write a book On the beautiful world of scenery, And the written word to the marvel of the camera Is as perfect as the sweeping of the seas, The dancing of the clouds, the softness of the hills, And the laughter and light of the human face. There is the mighty sweep of the ocean, Its measureless patience, its torrid heat, And its perpetual uprush of the spray From the mighty surf that rises all around; And the majestic majesty of the mountain tops, Their cold indifference to the deeds of man, Their everlasting beauty and grace. And the sweeping of the clouds, the luring of the waves, The flight of the fowls in the glorious air - All these I see, and more, for they are to me An historic fact, a part and parcel Of the written word. They are the mystery of the sea and air, The beauty and grace of Nature, and she Whose voice is written on the world's great page; And I, because I am a poet, must study Her written word, her sign and symbol. And the written word of Nature is a poem, And a treasure and marvel of the world; And the poet who breathes it into life Is a more powerful and perfect being Than either of the kings of the ocean, Because he walks with the sweet and terrible grace Of the creatures that dwell in the sea and air. The wind at night is wild and lonely, The sea is dark and soulless, And yet sometimes a small white sail will ride Among the stars like a little boat, And seem to make some kind of human cheer; And then people talk about the Sea and Air, And say: "It is a wondrous thing how beautiful, How wonderful and peaceful and human these two things are!" And they write it on a banner, and parade it In ceremonial fashion from city to city, And call it the Twenty Thousand. The sun on the ocean surface sinks, The waves move with him down the tide; But as he has gone out and left the shore The sun on the ocean interior rises, The song of the mariners is sweet, And they sing on until it becomes a song Of love and affection to their lovely ships And their divine and mighty stars that are Moved by their music. For what is beauty without beauty's cause? And what is mystery without mystery's cause? Ah, it is written in the book of nature, In the book of the sun, the mariner's song, In the book of the wind, the lark's heavenly song, And in the book of the waves, their ever murmuring song, That Beauty is God, and Mystery is God, And that they both were here before form and matter, Before heaven and earth, before the world was made; And they will be when He shall destroy the earth. I like the little ship In the beautiful blue sea, And I like the white sails waving O'er the sweet blue sea. And I think the sailors are good, And I think the wind is good, And I think the ship is near In the beautiful blue sea. The sunset on the South is serene and fine; The West is soft and violet-eyed; But the soft South is going; For the East is coming with the rush of wings, And she comes, the mystery, the bride, the wedded bride of the spring. The wild woods hear her as she passes by, The little lambkins know her, And the rivers of the mountains wake Their echo back to her. Her sombre chariot rolled under, The darkness folds her, She shakes out her hair, she shakes out her white and precious hair. I like the little ship In the beautiful blue sea; But I like the white sails waving O'er the sweet blue sea. And I think the sailors are good, And I think the wind is good, And I think the ship is near In the beautiful blue sea. The wavelets on the beach Are broken by the first gleam of light, The clouds in the sky above Are dyed like sea-foam green, And in the east the rosy Sun Begins his upward flight. The waves are bright on the beach And dance in the gleam of light, The ferns by the creek are green, The cacti drip with moisture, The lilacs thro' the grass In shrub-shores are tipped with bloom, And in the valley dwell the lilacs. The waves are bright on the beach And dance in the gleam of light, The ferns by the creek are green, The cacti drip with moisture, The lilacs tread in their flowers, And in the valley dwell the lilacs. I stood among the ships at anchor And heard the shipsmen shout; And saw the white seas rush, And the salt winds blow, And the ships sailing far. I stood among the ships at anchor And heard the shipsmen shout; And saw the salt winds blow, And the ships sailing far. Like clouds in mid-winter The ships at anchor Are snowy white and distant; The sails like eagles unfold And sail above the main. I stood among the ships at anchor And heard the shipsmen shout; And saw the white seas rush, And the salt winds blow, And the ships sailing far. In a long gray fane on a green hillside There is a church; and, all about, There is love to and romance; There is a wine press and a curing house, A general store; There is a beautiful young woman, Her name is Dora. Her friends are all out on the plains, Her friends are all over the ocean, Her friends are in the cities, But Dora sits at home at White Wolf Hill A beautiful young woman, and so gay. There is a young man by the road, He is asker of hunt and of woman; And he smokes his first cigar In peace, in the morning, in the west. He is asker of hunt and of woman, And Dora's is the most fashionable party. Her mother cooks a beautiful breakfast, For Dora has a beautiful figure; And, in the morning, in the east, He sees the beautiful maiden walking; But her mother, in vain, will talk to him, And talk to Dora, till day's end. One winter morning, when the snow was falling, And winds were roaring, and drifts were high, A group of children from a neighboring town All wearing scarfs with big white fluttering fish, Came cheering toward the mountain side. And, as they came athwart the mountain side, They shouted with a joyous cry; And Dora's friends were none too swift to join The merry gathering on the hill. The children thought that they were coming to see A show or a pageant; but when they got near, They saw they were to be disappointed. For, instead of seeing a pageant, they saw A beautiful young woman, in her glory; A lovely young woman, who had won A heartsomeness equal to the mountain snow. Her parents could not have been more pleased If some dark and cruel demon had been kind, As they were to their little maiden going. For Dora's beauty, when she left her home, Was matched by none but the snowy mountain rain, And the white clouds in the heaven's height. Yet Dora's friends were all so kind and good, So patient, and so brave, and so true, That they outmeasured the snowy mountain rain And the white clouds in the heavens' height. The children left their home and all its anxieties To follow their lovely Dora everywhere; They went to the front to meet the coming showers, And to the back from storm to bright day brightened. They could not agree as to what portion should go For sorrow, but all did as much for pleasure; And many a youth, to see his pleasant Dora pleased, Had loaded his car with goodies for her beauty. And, in the coming spring, when the leaves would fall, They'd go to watch her sporting; and, in springtime, Would come to chase the toad across the mountain side. But to please her mother, all save the youth were blunt, And he was to be her good man, and to sit The good wife at table, and make the meal, And help make bed and mend the roof and façade. And this was a sacrifice her mother would not bear, But went to her lover, saying, "I don't like it; You must make this sacrifice, and have your fun too." "I will," said the young man, "for this life is not to be lived up, And I will do what I can to shorten it out of hand." There was no gloom to his spirit, but light was his face, And his smile was glad and hearty as he told his love. And when he said "I do," the people therewithal replied, "We'll grant you the thing you propose to do or to enjoy." So he found one thing to do, to have his fun too, And off to the hunt he went with his smooth Josh Carey. Now the season came howling, with blast on the breath, And blackening skies, and the snows flying fast; And Josh, with his drab drifter best, Was speeding through the countryside far and nigh, In a most disgusting thing of filth and dirt, Which, in the very words of Josh, was "Canaan-colored," It was an old four-rail refrigerated wain Drawn by two mules, and it was drawn by these To a place where it was served by a boy who Had a voice like a preacher, and he said, "This boy's blood will be on your hands, you dogs! For every drop you let fall from his dear hands You shall regret it till your dying day! Now come, my boys, and look what cool is, The boy had drunk of the milk, and the drops Were falling fast, and he wiped his mouth, And a horrible stench arose, and there Up from the dirty horses came a stench, And the boy's dirty face came staggering near, And he stumbled, as if drunk, and then he fell, And struck his head on the rocks with a thud. And it was here the hunters found him, And they lifted up the boy, who seemed to know At this close range the weight of his fall, And he clutched the rocks and he bit them, too, And he foamed at the bit, as if his will Would not let him hold it longer at last, Till the men loosed him and he fell and lay In the dirt, with his forehead shattered clear. Now you must understand, I am an old man, With the sip and pulse of an old man; And I tell you, for I've lived so long, It's the same stuff--it's the same stuff For us to keep good store of, down here-- The same stuff for us to laugh at, too. And, as I say, I've lived so long, I know things, when they happen, when they do, That you won't believe, and you'll say as much, "But what in the name of Barker the It's the same stuff--it's the same stuff They tell you--they tell you it's time they should; But they say to you with a smile on their face, "Don't blame us if you follow it up With nothing but a smile, old man, and a joke; We're old fellows, like you, that have to pass The time as we go up Springfield Ave." I don't blame you, though; for I don't know. But if you do, I'll give you the blame, I dare; And you'll hear from every colored man in the street, That I blame these clowns for being what they are. But I won't blame the thing, though; I won't blame it; I won't blame old age, I won't blame the jar Of the big iron, or the jagged pewter, Or any thing, for they've been fools enough To take the books that taught me, for nothing. I know some one who has lived here a year And pays but half his income in taxes; Who owns no land, yet pays in land-levies More expensive than those on land and houses; Who eats at a tavern hand-breadths on dishes, Yet is taxed twenty-five cents a gallon; Who has not brought home in all the twelve, Twelve months of the year, yet bears a chain About his duty and his duty's sum. What is he, then? I'll tell you what he is: He is the damnedest bound of slaves in all This territory, for all his money I see; And since all his chains are made of feathers, Since they're worth more than the money I lose, I damn him, for they're worth more than taxes. But we are old, and sometimes we'll quarrel And bite one another's rings, and sometimes We'll fall out of a rage, and let one Lie on his head and break his nose, And curse each other out of spite, And curse the dark and the town together. You see, a man may hate another For any crime, or none at all, And not deserve it; or he may despise Some harmless creature for a nail-bag, And not deserve it; so with us is it. You see we are all such liars and fools. But what I mean is, we are not good people, We do not understand our duty; We get our nourishment elsewhere and give The child a cracker if he's hungry; We leave the sick one sleeping in the dust Because we like his faëry face; And then we lie to one another and Bitch one another's cradle-roofs. We make the fellow we hate our friend, And then we send him back to his own land Because his face looks angry or suspicious; We send the fellow we hate back because He can't keep his head above the sand; We give our vote to a fellow that lies Because we are all liars and fools. If you've no vote for making the place You live in comfortable and clean, And voting the right fellow to Congress, And thus helping the colored man get work; If you're not prepared to make the same Great sacrifice yourself, then go out And get yourself a neighbor who is. You'll never have to do that, my boy; I've done it, and I've had to; I'm living on the mountain, and it Is good and dry, and there are sheep; And they breed there, and the farmers say We ought to get some of our milk, And we can't get it, for the farmers. We've tried that, my boy, but we'll try Another time, I'll show you. You see The sky gets all matted with mist, And it's warm in the mountain; so we Came out to make a hunt and get A bit of meat and settle our debt; And we hunted and found nothing but The bubbling of the brook that poured Through the ferns and vines and bushes there, And we shot a bit and drank our beer. We talked about it some, and then I said: "It's up to you, Daddy, now, whether You hunt for the country, or hunt for me." And he said: "I'll hunt for you, son; And if I don't find her, I'll find the devil." And we hunted and had a good time, and I made him a proposition, and he Said he was willing to sell his farm, But he asked me to marry him before I married him; so we married and went To sell the farm, and we bought a shack Of some poor fellow that had not much meat, And that was all; and he was a gambler, And had one little room that was only dry. So we had to make a hearty offer, And the poor fellow received the farm, And we came back and sold the land and bought A mount as a place to build the shack, And we made the fireplace, and we made The heat and light and all the things to keep And keep the snow from falling, and we kept The stars from falling, till the Spring came. Well, when the Spring came and the days grew long And warm and long, and the heavens were bright, We got so many bugs that buzzed and flew, And such a din and such a buzzing sound That we thought it would be good to shut The windows and shut the doors; and I said: "You must keep down that yelling and clapping." So I said it and she said it and brother And mother said it, and all the rest of us; And I kept my hand from what was right; and We hunted and bought and sold and built the shack; And I bought a black bear, and the rest of us Brought wood to burn, and we hung it all together And I lit a fire and turned the spit, and soon We had enough to make a fire and warm our fingers. So we all got browned and ugly and lean; And she had a little bag that she carried With meat and drinking-cups and other things. She ate and drank, and she kept her face and skin And didn't complain. And we made a fire and got it warmed and got The wood to roar and crackle; but I said: "It's getting late, I must go." And we all said: "Where will you be when the long day is done?" Well, once we had the fire and the fire-light We got so warm with twigs and in the dark We could scarcely see or reach our burning finger-ends. But when day passed and the sun came up and We found she was still alive, we got aah together. And the black bear stood by her side and we kissed And said good-bye; and I tied her into the bag. Well, we got back and stood beside the bank To watch the water, and we heard the black bear Go limping along to where the road-side trees Were thickest, and he pulled at the bag and pulled And tugged till she stirred; and I said: "I guess You are getting thinner and thinner all the time, And the winter will never do you good." But I was wrong; she's stronger than I knew; And when the spring came and the wild bees came And stung her thrice and died, and the sun came up And brought the flowers, and the sky was bright again, She gathered them in her hands and made a fire And warmed them in her lap, and when she went About the woods among them all, she walked With a great heart; and I sit here in my gloom And grieve for him who lived and loved and died. You know the man who carried me away From the grassy grave where he was lying, And round and round and round he was dragging This way and that; and at last he reached a fence, And I could see nothing but white hands clutching at it, And silver feet that ran all silently. So I crept under the fence and the man Reached under the next one and brought forth a bundle, And began to grope and wrestle with it. "Oh, you shall not be going anywhere Till you give this back to me," said he. "It is not worth your while to try, I know. I gave you all that I had. Look here. You cannot take it." Then I crept away and came back a little while, And I said: "Now the time has come to try If you will give it up." And he was crying: "I cannot. It is beautiful as much as I can make it. It will stand for me when I am dead, as firm as this stone is. It is yours, my daughter, to return it to me." But she cried out all the time and kept him at bay. And I hid in the bushes; and he was forcing it on me, And I screamed aloud, for I was filled with fear, And his hands grew bigger, and his face grew white. And then I cried out: "You shall not have it. I will give it you." He would have taken it from me. But the night Came down and took it away from me. He was lying And I could not come to him to take it from him. And so I have been left here to struggle with it, And my heart grows sick and turns with anger from him. They married each other in a week, That's what the daffodils say. They lived their lives, they drove their cars, They sung and made love, they partook All pleasures of the table, all Prams of food, all platters of food, Dips of hot Jaffa cakes, And all the goblets of the sweets, They married each other in a week, They sent for their friends, they partook All the Jaffa oranges, all Limes and citrons and tastes, All the limes, and all the dates, Citrons, all the sugar-cane. And the English girls came too, All their scarlet mouths full of sweet. They grew so happy together. It happened that one night she found In the closet of her room A strange green box with scented lockets, And a mirror where the paint was loose And the colours mixt. She opened it and there it was, She said, "Look, look at this box, And see how cleverly fashioned is it, I wonder who knows that it is inside." She opened it slowly, fearing Lest it should escape her, And that it might be taken away By some one who was nigh. She knew not what might be in it, The design was so cunningly wrought. There was a mirror in the lid, And if she looked inside it she would see Shapes moving about, They were always moving, never still, And the shadows under each one's face Were just like a flowing river. She watched the moving shapes and then She closed the box very carefully. She sat for hours, she watched and watched, She knew not what she would find inside. She looked very hard to find out. She peeped with all her eyes, she pried, She moved the lockets and the scents, She thrust the box away to the last. It was full of dandelion seed, And the leaves were golden and red, The colours were so lovely to her. The mirror on the side was broken, The box was hid under her chair. She had not known that it was there. But the mirror was shattered and the scents Were all still on the mirror in her hand. She could see all the shining of the leaves, The reflections of the trees and skies, She could see them moving on the mirror's surface, And see their bodies and how they move, She could see them spring and strike, and curve, And grow still, and part and curl, and drop, And vanish on the mirror's side. She saw a fluttering and a shape, She saw a fluttering and a curl, She saw an arm and two shapes in bracelets, A flying cap and a waving fringe, She saw a white hand and arm and cuff, She saw a breast, she saw a glistening waist, She saw a pearly undershirt and underskirt, A tangle of golden threads and blue, She saw the whole of her thatch of blue. She saw her standing in the mirror Standing on the polished stone floor, She saw her turning to the lockets And seeing how glad she was, She saw her leaning over the keyhole And seeing how sad the glass was. She saw the carpenters laying bricks To make the house more strong and wide, She saw the guys hammering on the anvils To make the beams to spread out more. She saw the carpenters in pairs Building up the wall, they laid The bricks one on another, and another, They made a wall from three walls, They laid the beams on other beams, They made a beam from four beams, And then a little beam from five, They made a slab from six beams, And then another little one from seven, And another little one from eight, They laid the edges of the edges On beams and beams on beams, And then a first and second beam, And then a third and fourth, They made an attic from two memories, They laid the first memory on the attic And called it The Gift of Gifting, They sawed the wood and sawed the plank, They made an attic from two dreams, And called it The Repairs of Fostering, They cut the wood and cut the pine, They sawed the slabs and sawed the beams, They sawed the boards and boards the edges, And all was done that all could be done. She had no beds to save her from the sleep, No pillow to make her weak and weary, No knife to make her gentle and weak, No knife of silken or bone to hold. She had no pillow and no knife to save, No silken or bone knife to make, For all her sorrows laid upon her Were lost in air before they reached her. She had no bird to transport her feet To some far field of safety and rest, No feathers of beauteous plumage to guide, No silver linnet to give consolation, No song of shorebirds her feet to guide. She had no worries of any kind, No fears of any size or shape, No little worried cloud at all To carry tidings of any kind. She had no tears to shed at all, No worries of any kind to bear, No tears of blood to shed or wattles to wail, No little trouble to think of, Nor any little sorrow to deplore. She had no little troubles to suffer, No little woes to be distressed, She had no worries of any size or shape, She had no tears to shed or wail, No silver linnet to give consolation, No song of shorebirds her feet to guide. She had no problems to invent Nor any troubles to invent, Nor any troubles to foretell or guide, Nor any big or small problems to solve. She had no problems to invent, Nor any problems to foretell or find. She had no problem to solve, Nor any troubles at all to die. She had no doctor to heal her sorrow, No potion to call her sickness, No little dollop of physic to dispense, Nor any physic to give her. She had no little dollop to drink, Nor any drink to bring her safety. She had no potion to brew her slumber, No featherbed to make her close her eyes. She had no bed to give her comfort, Nor any comfort to give her. There was no little hurt to bandage, Nor any bandage to heal, Nor any little hurts to help her To rest and be silent night and day. There was no little hurt to cover, Nor any bandage to bind. There was no little hurt to bare her side, Nor any side to spare her. There was no little sick to hide from sight, Nor any shame to cover from blame, Nor any shame to hide from public scorn. There was no little sick to hide from sight, Nor any shame to show in open shame. There was no little sickness to hide from sight, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little hurt to kiss her, Nor any kiss to win her, Nor any kiss to take her hurt away. There was no little hurt to kiss her, Nor any kiss to take her hurt away. There was no little hurt to kiss her, Nor any kiss to take her ill. There was no little sickness to hide from sight, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from sight. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. There was no little sickness to hide from blame, Nor any sickness to hide from blame. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to rest upon. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to rest upon. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to sleep upon. She had no little bedroom to keep her in, Nor any bed to rest upon, But on a high clear starlit hillside, She slept upon a silken plain below. She slept upon a hill, upon a plain, In a glass window made to show The silken skyline. And every night by that bright window light, She sang her bed-songs, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. But every night by that bright glassy window light, She sang her songs, till her heart grew big and warm, And warm was every heart. For every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of love, till her ears grew keen, And keen was every tongue. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her bed-songs, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. And every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of sleep, till her head grew heavy, And her head grew heavy ever more. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of rest, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. And every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of rest, till her eyes grew dim, And dim was every face. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of sleep, Till her eyes grew dim, and dim was every face. But every night by the glassy window, She sang her songs of rest. The baby woke With a kiss upon her brow; The baby woke. And up she sprung For a teacup and a place To catch the sun's light. And down she came, With a mug of tea in hand, And a smiling face. And in the teacup's waving stream She sipped the tea, and drank The sun's life-blood. She sipped the tea, and sang The songs of that old world, And while she sang Her lips quivered like summer vines, And the teacup glistened. She sipped the tea, and wove And unwove in play A bubble paradise, And mirrored in it The pangs of regret. She sipped the tea, and wove And unwove with skill A domino, a mosaic, Of cup and spoon and cup and cone And cup and cone. She sipped the tea, and sleept With laughter in her eyes, And sung one day, A thousand years ago, A baby, lying in a cradle On a bed of roses. He who guards a Golden Apple Has his own Special Delivery, As does his horse, and his boot, And his coat from the worn smoking stocks, And his rain-suit, with its elastic waist, And his tiny beautiful toes. They were out riding in the rain, He thought he'd steal the daddy-long-legs, And go over to the apple tree And steal the apples under the tree, And take the keeper's ill-gotten gains, And not let the milk go down. And so they caught him, and tied him, And swung him in the air like a point of proof, And wondered over his hardened bones At the strain that shortened his life. And some reckoned him crazy, And some, that he was lunatic; And some, that he was just in love, And some, that he was doing time. And some said, with straight faces, That he was certainly mad, And some, that he was, by a long shot, A fine young fellow in his room, But caught in the piteous way That none could help being poor. And some said, with straight faces, That he was at least a man, And some, that he was just in love, And some, that he was doing time. And some, that he was just in love, And some, that he was doing time. Ah! old days, when all our toil Was toiled out in the stubborn dirt And only the rich got ahead; And toil itself a noble task, For only the strong were taken well. Ah, how we owed our little gold To the tipple of the nasty pint, And hardly anything to the talk Of kinsmen and friends and kin's boys. Ah, times they changed, indeed they changed, We're often thankful for the change, And, what we're less thankful for, We thank the giver, the giver's God. And now the jolly days are over, And the wicked days are coming back, When the devil's whistles are blowing, And the Devil, who always has music, Has plenty of tunes for the long dark night, When the howling wolf-toad and the lightning Are for the lips, by the Devil and his fishes On the bosom of Night and his terrors. A man who works with his hands Must, as a rule, eat bread; A man who works with his brains May want a coat of bark, And yet may feast all day, And yet may never think; For a brain that's not with brains Hungers like a worm on earth, While a hungry mind at rest Is as a beast in leash. The man whose work is undone May not turn round and grumble; To his loss there's little cause For regret or sighing; But to him who's ever done A thing unwisely, It's not so bad to have done As to be undone by it. A man who works with his hands Is subject to the pigs, To the mice and to the moles; He cannot please them all, He cannot make them thank him, But he can make them run. And if he has a devil To deal with in his work, It is better than having none, And quite a creature to meet. A man who works with his brains Must expect to be lost; For the ways of this world are hard For the most part, and rough; And the best plan that's worked out Is by one man and one man only; And though it sometimes meets with rails, You must give it your best. He may lack precision in some parts, He may bung in the plan incorrectly, He may mess up a neatly folded page In his keenest dispassion; But then 'tis one further step to put All his faults away and meet With a butcher for each family; So he thinks with pain, but 'tis well known That a poor butcher makes a good man. And, after all, there is little loss By a man's work coming back to him; In the long run 'tis but reading In the fondness of universal nature For a soul in all its vast variation. No one ever succeeded in striking out From the mass that he set out to rule; And if he does succeed, 'tis hard to say How much better 'tis to have made one trip Than to have gone out in the first place. But the man whose work is undone May repent it any time; For the light is always stealing on him As he drives out in his plough-share; And, after every gloom that's gone past, He looks up with hope that the last page Is the last that he'll open. Yes; there are instances where failing Is perfect virtue; And it is an unhappy thing, Is it not, my brother? There are failures, therefore I talk In this mood that I have started in, For failure, as I see it, Is an attribute of faith That has nothing to do with work. It was a failure, for instance, When our poor Abraham parted With Labre, his father-in-law, And wandered from the richer lands With their little daughter looking pale And their fine home all to ruins gone. It was a failure, when he turned from This rich home to a simple tent, Not to go naked into the market At the nightfall to sell his bread. It was a failure, when his wife, And daughters, both, were kind to one Another, when they would not suffer His wishes, when he would not be Included, when they would not leave Him too alone at her command. It was a failure, when his joy At his daughter's hand was passed And his own daughter was no more; And his wife at his right hand was dead And a child at bosom; so he Fell headlong, it may be. My failure, too, is a failure; I shall have more success In failing, as I dare to hope, If I risk it thus; But the failure, when it comes, Is a darkness that afflicts Me and my loved ones; it is A calamity. I have had failures; I have failed; The thing is well that I have done; I have not always done my best, But I have tried; and failure has Made me more human and weak, Made me feel for the creatures Who are less successful than I. The result of failures, in so far As it shows me what is man, The thing that I am not,-- The malleability Of the human mind, The weakness of the race, What weakness there is! I will not say failure has no pain, I have had, what, I cannot even tell, Neglected little comrades, my brother, My sister, my dear friend, the writer Of this simple song. I have wept at their loss, I am sure, More than I can ever tell In silence, I think, and so declare They were more precious to me than life. Their little wrongs, and cherries, and kisses Cherry-plucked, cherries taken from the lips, Cherry-picked from the bosom, cherry-blossoms, --These things, no doubt, were dearer than all To that soul of mine, which cherishes So blindly, and mistaketh so, That, what it may be of mine, it is Still less than all. For what we are, or what we seem to be, Or what we may be, is but half of us; And half of us is lost in the rest, And there is no way to tell aright The half that is most like us. Then let us cherries retain The little failures of our lives. To live, in so far as our nature allows us, Is to find ourselves through our deeds; And what we do is to some extent Empirical, and gives us a sense Of what we are, and what we might be. And thus it is, I think, We sometimes rise above our own natures, And our own acts, to a similar universe Of similar natures, acts, and men. I never knowed her face, Nor her words nor her thoughts; I know but the music in my mind When I think of her. I know the airs that through her songs Come choral, as if her songs were airs, And the sound thereof a choral sound. I never knowed her look, Nor the wiles that worked Through the years unseen; I know but the philosophy of thought And the looks of women that win men: Of thought that once seemed unalloyed With love, and the looks of women that win men. All of her conscience was gone When she died; But she trod the way she trod, And her memory was keen as a knife; She lived, she died, she never knew a wriggle In the cause she loved. I know not the notes of her lyre, Nor the allegory that run Through her poems, nor the fire of her mind, Nor the devotion that burned in her youth, Nor the passing of a torch that is spent, Nor the heart that ached, nor the soul that's dead, Nor the veil she wore. She is a lost thing of the past, And her spirit is lonelier than a tomb For all our whisperings. She walked life's narrow way, And the whole world forgot her face; She's gone to the place from whose opening door Never more shall walk the opening way. Not as a lily, Not as a rose, Love on her lips and on her brows Flutters his wings, He, the miracle that gilds her, He, the mystery, He, the Omnipotence, He, the princeps de joie Of her beauty, Who shall say That aught of the beauty In her eyes and in her hair, All of the magic of her voice, All of the softness of her touch, Is imaginary, Or illusory, Or nonexistent, To the eye of the lily-goddess? Love on her lips and on her brows Flutters his wings, Love the wonder and the power, Shall we not speak of him, Shall we tell him of her? He, the mystery that gilds her, He, the princeps de joie Of her beauty, God with His Friend--A Little Cripple You God with His Friend--A Little Cripple You There was a little Cripple once Who went to God with a crook. God saw that there was a little crack, And a little leak, And the little Cripple was done. God said, "It is so very plain That the little Cripple must die; I must change the little Cripple, too, And make him a little butterfly." So into the sty He melted down The baby butterfly, And so the Cripple was born. The sun came, and He took his stand Upon the little Cripple's brow; And God said, "Behold, I made the sun, And yet it seems I've done wrong. But all the same, it shall be right, Though I've made the sun wrong, right or wrong, For I've seen His sun just as it ought." And God went home to His world, And He said, "Now all the world is bright With His sun and His sun's bright gleam; But I'd like to see the sun do more, So to make the world quite see Him As He ought, all the world without fail. And so God went back to His world, And He said, "I'll just fix up one more thing: The sun must have a little black." And God went out to His world, And He said, "There, now I've got the black. But when I'm sure, I'll change the sun again, make it white, Just as the world needs to see Him All as it's supposed to see Him." God looked at the sun, And the sun looked at the earth; And the earth turned round about, And the sun went backward to His world, And never another thing Grew in the world as the sun would look. God stood upon the sea, And the sea bent above Him, And God said, "I've done it now, For I've changed the sun to my will. I've made the sun quite plain And white; And I've done it because I've felt That I'd rather not be whitened." A baby was sleeping, And the old man kissed the baby, And he turned into a child. "Now get up, little baby, For it's time for school. Don't sit on my knee, For I might turn into a fool." The river had a lot of little islands, Each one with a beautiful palace; The little children all of a sudden Came running out like so many dragons. The first was afraid, but the second Swiftly came out, for he knew he'd been sleeping; The third was afraid, but the fourth one came, And then all the others followed his lead. He went to the first little island, And he swung wildly about; And the little children all cried out, And they flocked about him, And they trod upon the ground, and they sat up And they sat upon the water's brink. But there came a handsome boy, And he very gravely declared That he also would like to remain And not go to school at all. He said he felt tired sitting up all night, And also, while be slept, He felt a little sad, and that made him sadder; And he thought that perhaps the other two Had rather have had him remain at school. But the old man said, "Now look here, There is a horse where you can ride; And there is a river where you can fish, And there is a wood where you can rest. Why do you always go away from me And neglect my children so? I do not think you are really so happy As when you all are in your play-business. "When you have always time for play, You must have all day to play; And you must not grieve at not having done Everything you could do; And, when you play so hard all the day, You must be free to go. It is a cruel thing not to know How all things change and grow. "The tree is green and still is standing, And still the sun is shining; The golden clouds above me Are waving, moving ever. I hear the cymbals' beat And the trumpets of the celebration, But I cannot see the place Where their feet are going. "The golden sky is shining And the sun is glistening; I feel it is getting late for leaving, But how I do not know. The music stops and stands still; The little boys come and look And their heads are all upside down Because they cried so loud For their friends gone away." The little children stood around and talked, The old man, sitting on a rock, Laughed very softly and he said: "Yes, it is like the stories I have heard Of other countries. Yes, it is strange and new and wonderful, But do not get me wrong. "It is like the story I have heard of Greece, But not in the way they told it me. It is not the noblest work of man And perhaps I should not have brought it To children over there. "It is a true story; but I am glad it is no worse For having had the freedom of speech. For I heard that when Moses returned From bringing good news from God, A great mob gathered and stoned him to death. It is no wonder they were so filled with fear, For they had never heard of such a thing. And they would not have killed the story artist If he had had the spirit of Mark Twain; But he had not the spirit of Mark Twain. He would not be as bold as he was bold. There are things in this world more important Than having the courage of Mark Twain. So we left him, and in silence walked Back along the shore of Time; And as we walked our thoughts ran on Like a tide, and we were caught In a tale that we had heard of long, Back in the old country. In that old country, long ago, There were living homes of clay, With chambers dim and halls of straw, And the fertility of the soil Was sprinkled over each home, With the withered grasses and weeds That grew at the barn-door. And it was Spring; the earth was green, With the bluest of the gold, And the flowers that were blossoming Were the tulip and the lily, And the crocus and the rose, And the pansy and the violet, And the amethyst and the helichrye. And the children in those olden days Went wild with color and sound, And the clean, blue daylight falling Was reflected in the rippling waves Of the bright-houred stream that flowed, With the puckered bows and whitening crests Of the great whales that passed by. The children played with whips and dice, And the harp that was swinging Was a thing of beauty to see, And the song of birds was sweet and clear And the hum of the honey-bee. And the forests were alive with life, With the sound of voices low and dear, And the dust of the travelers' shoes Was a blessing that was falling. And the rivers ran with a youth's laughter And the wreaths of flowers in their flood, And the sun on their swift-falling hills Flung splendor and splendor again; And the singing of children was tender, And the fall of the snow on the mountain Was a great and gracious sight. And the brilliant year of the flowers, With its vistas of red, With its rich and blooming life, With its fairy valleys and hills, With its rainbow of the sky, Was so beautiful and rare, And the warm, yellow hours were sweet, That I can see them yet. They are gone, with the sunlight falling On the sward in the meadows, And the sound of the streamlet in the woods, And the wild-woods' sonorous din. And I can see them in the winter dusk, But they are not with the voice or me Of all that loved them of old. Ah, day is short, and life is long, And love and friendship are long; And time is not so speedy as they; And they do not meet us always, And call us back again. So why should we think that our longings Are frustrated because they are gone? Long and rare is the life of art; Ah, why should we think that it is vain? The noble courage of youth and man, Is a thing of beauty and of power. And death may come and say to us, In a duller sun, or in a brighter, "Behold what a fool I have been!" He is the most accomplished man Who ever lived, or ever planned. His books are a rich harvest yielded Of wise experience and ingenuity; And there are few men who would fail Where he has won the prize of skill. All his convictions are sound, All his notions are sound; He has combined true science With true art, and science with art, And gained what art would not give; He has combined all things, And attained what none but he, Or all things only, could. He can paint a still life, Or can give it motion; He can sing a musical ballad, Or can give it speech; He can quench a thirsty poet In a draught of water; Or with swift Luther and Voltaire Dance a ringside reel. But above all, I love him for His ability to teach. As a teacher he surpasses all His American, and foreign, chums; And when some gifted youth Begs for wisdom at his hands, How he spurns him and spurns him! He can stir a provincial, A studious man to rashness, And he can quiet the alert, He can stir the sluggish at leisure, The sneer-browed man of speed; He can even—O, how he spurns me! He can even—O, how he spurns me! A full half of the world's hard core Is here concealed under steel; No world's hard core can find its way To the outer world's level. If your world were but a foot wide, And I, your little world's huckster, The world's heart and soul and defender, I'd thrust it o'er the seas, And you would ever be content With a poverty so slight That each poor red mouth that's fed Would say that it feeds content. Then, if you cry for a penny, I'll give you a quarter, And if you call for a cup of tea, I'll give you a cup and a half. If the cloth of your country be white, If its daughters are fair, and its sons are brave, If its flag is that red ensign you see Stretched across the western sky, If its people are free and its flag is great, Why should you wish it any other way Than that by which it came? What though the laziest and rudest souls should say That all that is good in this world of ours Comes from that old pale-face of God in the blood, And that all that is bad in this world of ours Crescendoes into being there? Why should you wish it otherwise than that Which all things freely come? In the blue sea-mist of that little house You and I stand. I am old with the sunshine of youth. You are old with the glory of love. Our lives are the breath of one man; And from this life of love and strife Come these two fingers of mine, That I may hold you, and that we may go As one flesh, one heart, one soul, Into the Presence that is to be. A woman's laughter runs like an ever-springing wave Through her hands' thousand silver wires, And her laughter is music clear and sweet Of gladness and gladder days to be. She laughs in her gladness for the light of the sun Burning with his love-lights in the sky, And her laughter is music clear and sweet Of gladness and gladder days to be. A woman's hands stretch out in a loving tone To touch a man's dark, troubled brow, And her hands' thousand silver wires Are silver with the prayers she says. And the dreams she dreams are gladness and cheer, And her laughter is music clear and sweet Of gladness and gladder days to be. A woman's eyes are filled with her love for thee, And her eyes are filled with tears of thine, And her eyes are filled with thy holy name, For in thine altar-place her eyes are met. Her eyes are filled with thy holy name, And her eyes are filled with thy holy name. A woman's heart is as a lily bed Where the flowers sing in the sun and ray, And her heart is a lily bed where the flowers Sing in the glory of light and she, As the bright flower, clasps with her spreading hand The heart of her lover, that the heart may sing Of the days of her lover and his love. Her eyes are filled with thy holy name, And her eyes are filled with thy holy name; And the lips of her heart are wet with thy sweet name, As the streams fill and pass out of a well Where the fragrance of God's sprigs is found. And her lips are wet with thy sweet name, And her lips are filled with thy sweet name. And her fingers are white as the pure star-flower, And her fingers are white as the snow-spray, And her fingers are white as the wool of the alpaca, White as the snow upon the mountain-peaks, And the sun is as a flame in her eyes, And her lips are filled with thy holy name, As the fragrance is filled with the name. O then, O then, we shall know each other, If not by face and voice and hand-grip, But with the love in the love-machine, By the breath of the love-veil that one wears. O then, O then, we shall know each other In the golden air that veils our faces, If the winds blow true and the clouds stay, And the lightning flash and the sunbeams glow. When the sunset paints the eastern heavens Like a runed mirror on the mountain, And the breeze is like a reed in the wold, Then I know that it is dead of night, And it is light of morning to me. The eyes of the morning are far fain Of the pure red of the morning light, The lips of the morning are white With the kiss of the lips of the morn, And the runnel flows on the mountain-side Through the forest to the brooklet. The dew is dim of morn on the flowers, The grasses are a-glow with the heat, The heat of the morning and the flush Of the blushes of the morning morn. And the land is filled with odors that attract The birds to nest in its shade and bloom; And the forests are full of birds that sing And flit among the branches as they list; And the rivers run with the waters that flow From the springs of the hills to the sea. I turned to the high, dusky wall Whose battlements were fortified By the bombard of the sun and rains; And I saw its battering engine-doors Wide open at night to the raging storm. I heard the thunder of its great strokes roar; The waters of the world were dumb As they rolled by the teeming shore. I saw the ram's and the rams' whistling harpoons Set upon the undulating goal-line; And I watched the curving spurs of light Closing in circuit on their whistling goal-line. The ram's and the rams are numbered with the lost; Their goal-line was holed with their pursuers. I saw the sullen shadow of the pack Drag the reeking corpse, as it were a pail, Down the gashed and sodden slope of the goal. I saw the lead reel like a fisherman's line, The man "chop" the ram with the butchered ram; The whole fleet was out at sea, with the watchers in the heart of the storm. I heard the heave and the groan of the rollers, And the clatter of the anchor chains; I saw the rams in their whitewashed barracks, And the bull's-eye hung in the gloom; I heard the ram's prayer, the roundelay of the horn, And the piping of the oars; I heard the sailors' song of the salt seas, And the distant lapping of the rollers; And the ram and the horns and the oars Were silent as a pasting of dried-up seaweed On the sand. I climbed to the deck; and the dead waters From the guttural ravines rushed; And the ram's prayer was rung again, And the roundelay of the horns. I lifted the curtain of the door Where the ghostly fleet was assembled; And I listened, and heard the breathing Of the souls that were scattered, like the foam, As the ships went out to their play. Out where the dark tide flows Out where the strong wings float, Out where the hot heart beats, With the splash of the buoyant boats And the bawling horn, I hear the strident horn From the ram of the Bermudas sounding, And the strident horn From the muzzles of the hounds of the Guadalquivir. Where the sound of the surf is a silver linnet And the wave that rises thereon Is a sonnet, a lyric and a siren, A vow of a life and a love, A dare and a dare again, And the bell that tolls there in the palms of the damsel, The bell of the island-secret answering, Bursts forth its music clear and keen. Out where the dark tide flows Out where the strong wings float, Out where the surf is a silver linnet And the wave that rises thereon Is a sonnet, a lyric and a siren, A vow of a life and a love, A dare and a dare again, And the bell that tolls there in the palms of the damsel, The bell of the island-secret answering, Bursts forth its music clear and keen. Out where the dark tide flows Out where the strong wings float, Out where the surf is a silver linnet And the wave that rises thereon Is a sonnet, a lyric and a siren, A vow of a life and a love, A dare and a dare again, And the bell that tolls there in the palms of the damsel, The bell of the island-secret answering, Bursts forth its music clear and keen. Oh thou stern God of the lawless, Ruler of the world of riot, Wherefore thus in heaven gatherest These bewildered souls of the riot? Why hast thou made them slaves, Mere brutes that cannot feel nor love, And deaf to thy most high voice? Why hast thou made them unaware Of thine high will and divine? Are they not the enemies Of that eternal will which dares not strike In wrath or fear, but keeps aloof from strife? Are they not deadly to itself and terrible When once it comes into its plenitude? Are they not at heart selfish and that forbid All charity in thought or word and deed? Hast thou no merciful counsels too For these bewildered souls of thine, These deadened hearts of a deader life, These souls that are more alive than life, That move and revel in a golden air, Lovely, ecstatic, joyful, strong, Unarmed, feeble, indifferent, tame, Dumb ever with ignorance of their race, Or memory of its gods that perish? Are they not foes to be overtaken, Wilt thou not then make hospitable A room in thy sky so scorched with hell, Where these blind souls may have their tribunal, Where thou mayst hear their confessions, And by that mysterious, clear, Instant, inward-turning glass See the white souls of the dead, And mark the souls of the wicked Pass like a river through the skies, And watch the graves that are dark with snows, The which no winter can disunite? Have they not sent their bridal train, Have they not waked by messengers, Heralds, and captains, and high-priests, Hast thou not heard their fierce commands, Their awful laws and dire decrees, And the thunder of their voices? Hast thou not seen the clouds that are rent, Roll and darken, and their vapours bow, And the lightnings strike, and the thunders roar, And the earthquakes shake the fiery mountains, And the rivers in their beds are dried, And the woods and the forests are consumed, And the great hills by the blind sun's rays That consume and are consumed, They that carry fragrance and colour and light, The flowers of the immortals by night Beholding, consumed, They are consumed, Consumed as the never-fading flowers of flowers That bloom for a day, They are dead, they are dead, Their essence is scattered and bound in air, They are lighted and lighted as the smoke of a candle, Flicker and glimmer and disappear As the light and the flame of a candle, But their scent is as that of roses, Their colour as colour of roses, Their sound as the sound of the sound of a bell, And their gleam as the gleam of the light of a moon. O pity these poor blind wanderers, These souls of the dead that are alive, That have forgotten their dead companions, Their living friends and their departed gods, And their language is but the murmur Of the sea-wind on the reefs, And their thoughts as flowers are growing, Blooming as in the moonlight. In the caverns of the island, These souls are abiding, So cold and deep and dark and dim, That neither fire of sun, Nor rain of shower, nor dew of May, Shall pierce their icy walls; And their roots are buried deep In the densest earth of all, And the beasts of the land Tread as upon hard clay. But sometimes, in the bright moonshine, When the sun beats on the mountains, Or the wind shakes the snow from its hair, Or the lightnings flash and the storm-gusts rise, A solitary pine-tree stands, And the traveller hears the rippling far-off sound of its leafy tumult, And sees, as in a dream, Its branches swinging in the sun-gleam, And through the darkness sees The white lightning gleaming and the storm-clouds flying. Have you not seen, in the still moonlight, The ghosts of the deer run before a boat, That leaves at evening, or at morn, the ghost of a village-cradled river? Have you not seen the bright ships in their sailing, Shimmering and fading in the moonlight, Drawing small masts and sloops and jibs along the water's surface, With the spangly ring and sputter of the rigging, And the tinkling clink of the tackle, As the ghost-ship glides on, And disappears in the darkness? And they say, as night comes down upon the waters, And the clouds in masses drift over the waters, And the moon stops here and there, And trails her trailing fire, And slides from the mountain, and is lost in the dark clouds, And the islands and isles grow white and indistinct, And the river Slides, a winding stream, Over a fern-strewn waste of water, in the moonlight, And the ghosts of the deer Run after the boat, And follow, From the lowland to the coast, With a shriek that splits the stillness of the water, And a rush of clutching arms, and a long rush of beating wings, And they follow, From the light of the waxing moon, And the islands that lie to the farther dark. Till the shivered moon, a string of fading white, Trails her trailing flame Over the isles that are mouldering in the darkness, And the dead islands swim in the dimness, And the ghost-loves stand with pale faces bent in shadow, And the lovers lie in the ashes of their love, And the old ruineds Float on the stillness of the water, And a light wind sweeps over the waste of waters, And a voice calls across the waste of waters, And the ghosts of the deer Come trailing after, And a wild herd comes trailing from the hills, And a sea-mew clings to a old storm-board, And the bark of a floating graveyard lies at the sterns, And the ghost-ships lie on the margin of the waste of waters, And a silvery mist comes o'er the still waters, And a landless one in a blackened iron clothes, And a naked dead man in a shroud, And a white lamb of the fall of other years, And a trifling phantom-girl in the wilderness, And the mist on the margin of the waste waters, And a rocking ship Strikes against the margin of the waste waters, And the waste waters crackle with lightning, And the shivered moon dies out in the distance. In the hollow of a hill, On the border of a wood, A man stood with a rifle in his hands. And the horsemen rode at him in a line, With rifles at their eyes, And at a hundred yards they had shot them all, With a sweep of rifle-sight. And some cried, "He has sent for us to come, To shoot at him in case of pursuit, For he fears he may be followed." But the patrols ignored them, And rode on, with careless steps, Till they reached a brooklet, And halted in the sedge, While the men of the patrol unbound their guns, And threw their guns and meal-bags Down in the waters of the brooklet, And jumped into the water with the fishes, And carried them back to camp, Where they cut up and cooked the fishes In water brought from miles away, And set them on a little board, While they ate, and told funny stories, And told their laughing jokes, And laughed till it was time to go. But some of the men in the patrol Were very hungry, And sent out for a bite to eat, While they waited for the sun To cool off the sweat of the day, So they drenched themselves and waded in, And began to eat the fishes whole, And scarcely thought of the danger of pursuit, While they ate the fish and danced in the river, And hardly thought of the dread of capture. And it was at night, When the scouts had supped and been merry, That they saw the dead body of the man In the river, Mangled and full of arrows. And they knocked at the window, But no one came to the door, And they climbed the ladder to see If they could see the man in the water, With the arrows all dripping from his body, Like the water from a wagon; And they saw, when they looked very long In the water, That the man was dead, But he was dancing in the water, And he was moving, and he was breathing, With the arrows shot from his body. And the horsemen rode to the man's camp, When the horsemen had supped and been merry, And they found the man Fasting in the forest, With his shirt rolled up over his head To the middle of his shirt. And they kicked his shins and bounced his blood All over the wigwam. And the horsemen then rode to his wigwam, And dragged the prisoner, hand and foot, To the centre of the tent. And the horsemen stirred the fire When the prisoner must sleep inside it; And they burned all day, and all the night They burned the man in it, And they poured black sea-water all around it, And they burned it so well, That the prisoner only woke, With the fire still burning in his body. But when the sun was set And all the horsemen were gone home, They poured black sea-water over the corpse Of the dead man, That it was bathed and dried, And then wrapped it well in a white cloth And laid it in a cool place, That it might be well incinerated, And that no light of it might escape it. And they also burnt the wigwam. And when the sun came up, The horsemen came again, And they stirred the fire, And they lighted fires all day long In an attempt to destroy the light That had been given to the prisoner. But the sun came up every day, And the green fire-light in the forest Was seen by the prisoner every day, And he danced in the forest every day, Dancing to the whistling of the black-throat, And the singing of the maidens, And the laughing of the women, And the talking of the men. And it came to pass that he was hanged, By a cord that was stretched from a tree, With a black hood above his head, And a hand was left hanging in the air To take the life of him at night, As the others must also be hanged, For the sun was shining on him all the time, And the green fire was burning in the forest, And the red fire was burning in the lodge, And the water in the river was flowing, And the salmon were swimming in it, And the pike were leaping in it, And the sturgeon were jumping in it, And the eels were playing in it, And the beaver was lying in it, And the fox was sleeping in it. And the horsemen then rode all together And they fell in a great rush All in a row, With a terrible roar, From the bottom of the wood. And the people came running, running, From the banks of the river, And the water-flags were waving, And the eels were jumping on them, And the fish were thrown on the river, And the fishes were falling, On the deep and boundless river. Now we have come to and fro A thousand times, A thousand miles, In a wooden shoe, And all the time We thought we heard our home, Laughing and crying, Through the nights of Winter, When winds do blow, When clouds do rise, When sunbeams cease, When stars have grown, And when night is through, We all do pray, The stars we know not, Nor the heavens, black and clear, Whose glory all men know; In the chamber we do sleep, And we dream by night Of a thousand glorious things, A thousand glorious dreams. The god of dungeons, In a wooden shoe, Lives a thousand years, And on New Year's Day Shakes the crumbled shoe, And under it His iron chains are set; And the men that work In the factory, In a wooden shoe, Are released at noon; The wooden shoe Shakes itself as they go, And their lives will end, And the shoemaker Will be set free. Little of life that is Is known of morning Or of noonday; But we in sleep do dream Of other years, And a little of the dawn Will wake us to cry: Down the garden paths we go, Each in his separate world, And we know not of each other, And we speak not of the air Where we have walked. In the temple courtyard, I do not think that I shall see The faces that I know, But I shall walk in my own world Which is not seen of others. In the empty hall, Where its windows stare On the long street, I cannot heed the murmur That has risen there; And I feel, when I walk In my lonely room, That the walls are taller Than the world outside. But from other worlds have come My traditions, And in my dreams I see The figures of the heroes In the halls of knowledge. And my mind is filled with phrases Recording the stories Of the wars of old. Thus, at times, in the silent moments That open the day I may hear, as in a music forgotten, The distant voices of great poets Telling of the world, And of a world forgotten. In the hushed hour that opens the night, I feel a quietness come over me, And a stillness come over me; And I am aware of a presence there, That seems in every sense to be, And seems not to be, And yet is. And in the silence that follows, With sense less, yet more clear, I know by heart a many-colored story Of the nations, Till it seems to me That from my soul the smoke is blown Of a thousand musical compositions By wandering spirits of envious men, In a world forgotten. They thought it disgrace, they thought it shame, They thought me mad, To dream of another world besides this, Of another star, Beyond the violet line, Beyond the spiral arm Of the bridge that spans the sea, Beyond the farthest sea That is named after a queen. They thought me mad, and they were right. I cannot tell you now the tale That is born of pride; It is born of loss, and gain, and woe, Of hope, Of fear; it is born of every thing, And all of me. But this I know, that every power, And every chance, Is but a measuring rod By which we measure our own strength, And see the place Where we are least and best. And I have watched, as by a prince's death The palace clock is struck, And from a thousand clouds that rolled A thousand crimson fires, A voice cried, "Here is your grave." When I was yet a child I heard the lark at dawn sing, And danced with toy soldiers, And read the newspapers, And read the books of fairy tales To little boys who ran Along the avenues With wooden leg and rayon coat, And chased the women. I heard the crower sing, And thought the stars in heaven Were rather foolish things, If they would not shine on earth Like sunbeams, instead; The world were better without A book or newspaper editor, A vice-president or speaker, A prayer-book in the pulpit, Or any such thing. I danced with toy soldiers On a May morning In the open air of Vermont, And read the newspapers With my brother Philip, And read the books of fairy tales To little boys who ran Along the avenues With wooden leg and rayon coat, And chased the women. For this is the clime The children of the present day Obeying must tread, The flowery paths, the meadow land, The pastures green, The shadows of the cliffs By which we sit and wait, The advent of the springtide And its various fish. And these the future's clime, Children of the present day, Whose hearts must wander forth, Who have a thirst to see The summits of the earth And listen to the sounds Of winds that climb the sea And cheers that sound from cliffs, The breaking of ice. And some will say, "I will climb The Caucasus, and will see The Northamptonshire village, The distant farm-land of the Ben That freezes at the winter's hour, And hear the rural music Of these dull waves that beat In quiet rivers and streams. "For thus," say they, "will we win A more attentive ear To speak to us alone Of heart and spirit; for we That have not learnt to pray Will at least be heard. "Beside the river Irty, Just as the sun goes under, And sinks behind the mountains, A man will leap in the sea, And rise to become a ship, And sail the hurricane Of these our seas that beat And weep o'er our lifeless dead, And weep o'er our moulder'd sands. "And when the Northmen from their camps Shall cross our Atlantic soil, And dig our fertile valleys That lift the blossom'd corn, They will adore the spot Where first the ocean called, Where first the wind of heaven Was heard upon the shore. "Let them go forth and seek forlorn Men in whom the mystic power And early love shall bless The son of earth to do The most and suffer the least, And men to see and feel The beauty of the earth, That through their tears may rain God's blessing on the earth." But if this prayer is vain It is but that in the souls Of those there walks no rain In graves beneath the sea, Where'er they go no clouds May wipe the snow of woe From sorrow's writhings, and no sun May lighten earth with light. And all their hope is like a flower Growing in a dry sand; For all their prayer there is no rain In every bosom; all their praise Is as the dirge of waters; all Their fear is as the fear of tides, Or as the fear of fire, and all their love Is as the love of winds. Ah! to those folk the door Of all the springs of love Is open wide, but yet, Their words are as the shriek of man Who wrestles with his fate; And their flowers are as ensheathed mists And their prayers as the voice of storms Breathed from the bottom of the grave. I lift mine eyes unto the hills, Where the calm streams in forests go; I see the red-roof'd barn; And hear the bellowing of the sheep Upon the path. I see the cross-reef and the board, And the freshet running gold; And the sheaf in the dewy green, And the waif in the breeze. My hands were clasp'd upon my breast, My head on the leaves was bow'd, When out of the open door Of my soul there flew a sound, A whisper of dismay, As of a rising wind, That in the darkness of the night Should rise and shake the towers. I saw two figures in the sky; The right was solitary, The other warbled, coaxing light; And then a sighing sound began From the solitary one, And thence a call, and answer so A mother might know. "O thou, my son," said the sound, "Whose heart is my motor, If thou hast any thoughts besides Of a future state, remember The elder can and do. He too, when his young blood began To leap and to expire, Fearing he would die before the dawn, Took a mother's heart." "O mother, mother," said the other, "What a treasure thou art, And O, how dear art thou to me; I, that have never revell'd In joy, save in memory. How sweet it were, if I could see Thy tranquil image there!" I saw the figure of the elder; The angel of his youth Was false, and his heart, it appear'd, Was cold--for still he sorrow'd For the mother that had lost him. And then he bow'd his golden head, And I thought how Julia weep'd, When at her departure he stood So lone in the midnight sky. The figure of the younger, I know not why, But 'twas spirited as a fay, And with voice that singlywhelm'd the speaker, Bow'd also. When the first one had dazzled my sight With beauty of form and of hue, It moved on the air, And I saw two men sit down by my side, With voices that waken'd on my ear The laugh of infants, the low sound Of wing on the thigh of the one, The word of the other. "My son," said the first one, "Who speakest with such earnestness, Behold your father and mother. Here they are to behold. Their smile is like the smile of our Lord; Their tears are like the tears of our Lord. They are the Alpha and the Omega. And the Holy Ghost was thine." I knew them not, but by the reverent awe That ruled in my breast, And by the words, with their meaning entranced, That had rang in my ears for years and years, And in the solitude of night for days, I knew them not. But in the light of the smiling first mother I guessed the figure of the elder; And in the gloom of the second, the shade Of the pure shape of the filial saint; And in the radiant smile of the gray-haired sire, And in the tear of the holy heroine, I knew them not. The human figure that adorn'd the next Took me by the hand, and we pass'd on, And I knew them not; but I felt in my heart A peculiarly male emotion stir Upon my manly, melancholy breast, Which compelled me to bend before them, And give to them my lips, and my heart, With my own mouth's lips and my heart's blood. And so we walk'd on, till we came into a mead That lay upon a ledge of the hill's slope, Upon whose top a copse of high green saw-trees Rose, that from morn till almost noon, afforded A thing to look at, and a thing to contemplate, An inland meadow, and a lone church-yard. Upon the meadow the summer bloom was dying, And in its place the winter reared his chin A gloomy trunk, that e'en from out its green is shedding A languid shadow; while o'er it, black as the raven, The ravens with their screeching buzz'd; and, ho! the wind, That comes with most disagreeable piercing shriek, Perch'd on the resplendent boughs of the saw-tree, To drop various flakes of chilly snow, that lie Upon the grass below, like pearls, and make The beauty of the scene seem more beautiful. And, as we proceeded, I remark'd, that now The path along which we proceeded was no more; That where before there had been a bridle-way, The path was now the track of a horse alone; And that while there before had been space for free conversation, There was now time for no horseman on earth to pass. And I said, "If men could understand our mortal part, They would split us into two equal parts, And split us into two equal parts, and divide us, And divide us, so far as death will be good to us, Into two parts again; for the nature of man is so distinct From the nature of the horse, as opposite to God. "Hence, if we divide ourselves as much as may be, We shall never be happy; and there's no greater fool Than man still: for if you stop to consider who he is, The sublunary world will seem but a sunny spot In a desert, where he can look on and contemplate His lost and miscreated state, and still averse see What he was born for, and all his heavenly train: "For the horse is born for service, and to supply The service man may choose to render him; But man is born for pleasure, and the reins give over At his desire; and there is never a pleasure But what will be employed for his service yet. Wherefore, I conclude, as the circle of my ride Was such that I could gaze on the grass without Carrying a lawn for riding, a flower for beauty; And such a lovely spot for beauty and for green As my love's aloe is to me; such a solitude As shuts out the cruel world from my path for days With only the rustle of the fallen leaves of the aloe For company; and in its heart, another world Of splendour and life, opened out to my desire Our senses are so, well, adept to note All that is ridiculous or presumptuous, That out we leap to reply to the last And good-nature makes us so good-nature justifies A foolish manner, as well as folly; And when we meet a limit, as I have done, We find that our quick parts go so far, we know There must be brimstone beyond it somewhere. As from my talons, alas, alas, The point that struck me, when I touched the seal, Was released, the spirit that was my prey Went darting after me, and my manly pride Caught him and held him, till, strangling him, I thought the life went far; but just at that I saw the spirit writhing more and more, And lifting his head above the grass to swear, And swear, and swear; and I was as proud as can be, And told him so, and let him go, and he went; And then, poor fool! the fun was all gone through. All gentlemen, when all ladies belong To them, as men to women; you will find, My dukes, my lords, and, my lord bishops, Have good, kind, equal, lasting love for each The rest being trash, or nothing at all. In every eye you will see all that's good; There's not a creaking tree, or mossy mound, To prove there's anything above the dust That breathes in rank earth, or sits in a wall To keep the weather out, or in, or up, Or down, or round, or into, or out of sight; But dung, or worm, or worm's dung is all the earth, With rusty bits of worse; and dust is the dust; You shoot a deer, you make a pig, you stew a calf; And from all that, and more, you set yourself. Now in this holy book I pray you read, As Pray! I swear by heaven, and pray you so Go to the house of Enoch, and be a saint. These gentlefolks all get married every year; One man lives with them eleven years, then dies. Some say that Mr. Mike is quite a beauty; Some say his face is too high for a lady's head. Now that's a strange story! and the other, too! They both strike me as mad. But for the man Who has been living with these old ladies for years, It is certain he is a great beauty; And they call him sweetly, sweetly, sweetly, now, As if sweet were high and sweet were high am I. This terrible creature, do you know her name? No! no! I will not. Oh, but she's a creature, And one to whom I am bound in friendship now. I hope she is not a witch. I do not know. I met her at a party, she was there, And sat at a table, I think, in the hall. She had on a gown all of the finest dye, And she had on a cap of the very rarest sort Of lace, and her hair was curled up like a bow. She had on dark eyebrows, and a little curl, And her eyes were blue, and a fine yellow sunshade Lay at her foot, and a diamond set in it. Her round arm was open, and the lace gown Had an hour-glass shape, and she was not at all Like other women, and when she spoke I listened. That was a grand old day, that was a grand old day, When the world began. The hills were hills then, And the valleys were valleys, they were hills still; But we now stand on the shoulders of giants. They lay there then on the forests and rocks, And our eyes look through them to the eternal skies. We look up at God's world from the universe's verge. We hear there the ceaseless tread of its feet, We see its mighty cities, we read there the law. We look on the earth, and we look on the sea, And we pray there that we may be made just like them. There's something in this world that has brought me near To everything that I would ever do or see; And I know, by the love of this grand old world, By the love of the dead and the living, That I should not be writing this book if it were not, In part, because I have had the dear privilege To see and to hear and to be so very near The things that are to be, in part because Of this world so rich and so industrious, in part Because this world produces so much art, So many songs and so many thoughts to so many eyes, And because this world contains and is worth so much. And now, O now, as I gaze through this world so vast, Like a child at a wondrous picture in a book, A look of wonder and of rapture I feel Comes o'er me, and I know that this is God's world, And I know that I, too, am of God's world, And that I should do something in this world to bring Joy and wonder to these children of time, These children of one man, who looks from his throne, Reading their thoughts as plainly as they are written. I should not be doing what I do if I thought That the things written in the Book of Job were true; But when I read of cherubim, and se'n, and th' gods, And the joy and glory of beholding God in heaven, I am reminded that these things are not true, But that, in order to be happy, a soul must suffer pain. And therefore it is that I write these words of mine. And though they are often twisted and made knotty By long contrary fancies, they are somehow woven Into this very simple web of speech, This very subtle web of thought, This very fine and delicate thread of thought, Which is so tender and delicate and fine, That some day, when my words are all turned into prose, They may shine with glory as pure as gold. <|endoftext|> I keep a small garden Where I graft the seeds of happiness On the underground of my soul, That they may grow and grow and grow Till the world is filled with peace. I take the soil of my heart, And I stir and nurture it Into the heart of the earth; And from it there comes life and birth To the end that I desire. I keep a small garden; it is dark And damp and cold and fierce with weeds. I go there, and I pluck the flowers And I set them in my daughter's hands And I give her bread to eat. But still my garden is foul, And often I turn back and curse The hot, loathsome earth of my soul That I forced her to be partaker Of. The ragged green of the earth is sick with dirt; The eyes of all living things Drink in the poisons of their days. The dusty streams of night Are thick with sodden logs, The insects' wings flit overhead, And dogs defile the graves of men With their diggings. And these things I see; and these things are mine; I may do with meh the same; But this I know, that when the time shall come For the sons of men to be slandered as fools For their lack of wisdom, The world shall hear of me, The slim, crooked man with the goitre, And pass from sight. One, two, three! Those old pioneers didn't. A little water, and one of them was It! He had a will, he had a shovel, And that's what he did. Those who've come since Are just as wise as he was, And just as big. O dancing shall we go? No. Dancing shall we go? What shall we do? Swing and a-swing Of mighty New York. Tremendous swinging! Then all the world opened its doorways, And down came the gaunt, lank figure With the shovel and the smile, And down came the dawning, And the people loved him, Who are always hating. So he bade them welcome, And they asked no why, And they kept their breath tight, For they felt the old miracle In the old oak town. One, two, three! And, down in the ditches, And up through the trees, And over the hills, And along the streams, And to and fro, They are lifting their hands to-day, In the spring of love. In the red house where the lanterns burn In the skies above the road; And the sounds of a town that cries Like the blood through a great wound; And the cries and the cries and the cries Of men in the street; And the shouts and the shouts of the crowds Who are dying with thirst; And the sniff and snort of the winter wind That passes by; And that red road, red as wine, Through the night to the city, With its watchman as soft as wax, And his female partner strong; And the manifold marvels done In the flashing of the hour, And the hope that the people have Who are living to-day. O my friend, you who are waiting for a spark, And the big bang, and the thunder; You who are waiting for the revolution In the brain; Let me tell you, friend, what will come of it If it hits at the birth! You will find, if you look up, when you die, That your brain is not the whole of your life. You will find that there are lands of another frame When the heart has cried for the wild sports of the earth, And the eagle and the panther share the hill: When the bull-fighter has fenced them from harm, With his bull-shaped helmet and feather, And the cheers of the crowd rise louder and louder, And the man to the fore is the first to bleed; When the races are run, and the dance is at full swing, And the woman, at intervals, pauses to eye The man she favours with her breast; When the bull is herring, and the mole is bacon, And the pork is ham; When the races are run, and the dance is at full swing, And the woman, at intervals, pauses to eye The man she favours with her breast; When the bull is herring, and the mole is bacon, And the ham is bread; When the bell rings, and the train has come at last; And the red sun sinks in the golden west, And the pageant of life hush to a silence deep, And the long day ends; When the leaves are all for winter, and the wild wind faints To listen, as the dusk gathers in the sky, Like a weary crew that caged by a restless tide: Then the birds sing last with quivering voices, and the hills Ring with the singing of the squirrel and the rooster. When the fever has fled, and the fever like oil has clung To the empty limbs and the lonesome smell, And the face has a ghostlike splendor, and the eyes A wide hollow look of dim surprise, As though it looked through tears; When the lips are dumb, and the lifted hands are closed, And the weariness of life has a strange charm; Then, on a day like this one, out of the blue sky I hear a bird singing high up in the air, And I see a man swinging a heavy beam of ice Out of a great hole in the top of a mountain. That was an old story, now old as the breath Of the years when the horse and the pelting rain And the reaper-shoe were filled with the dead. And I wonder if the long creeping years Forgotten it or not. What have I said? It was but a story! It has piled up its corn and its clover, And the yokes are set and the barns are built, And the wagons lie stretched alongside, And the lonely river-banks ring with sleepers, But the story is dead. The years drop in heavy folds of the mist, And I am the old hay-field that lies between The dam and the ditches, and I see Down in the hollows a little splash of dawn Waking the yellow and gold. But the mists have a gold of their own, And the light on the meadow is as warm as tears, And the birds sing not. The land runs down to the hollows; I am rising from all history, But I am falling from all memory, For my old trouble is not mine any more, And the old fear is not mine any more. They ride by, and they pluck the flowers; But the lilies in the haystack will be my flags, And the story will stand with the rest. I would ride with them, were I old enough, And I'd borrow their horse, as I said, Not the traffic's, not the racehorse of fame, Not the beast with a gaudy tag on his back, Not the terrible triumph of blows. But a horse, serene, calm, and sweet, And one whom I'd loved and cherished, And ridden as my own; With a trace of the old singleness Not invented by art; A soul as true as the clover in the wind, And the hearts of the clouds. We'd have done things better, And we'd had fun, too! We'd have held our tongues When the fruit was full of the pits, And we'd have laughed and we'd have cried Till our sides made a cracking laugh, Till we clapped the curb and hauled As we clapped it on and on, And the gleeful bells would have run In pennies like jolly dralthiels Up and down the sky, And the happy bells, as they rang, Would have run in revellers' ears By the rivers of Rhine. A tiny green gleam Comes at my elbow, And the sound of a cuckoo Is in the trees,-- A blithe little song Of the younger folks, And I raise my glass And sing as I always sing, Till the glass looks full, And the cup seems big, And the hand seems big, And the head seems big, And the eyes and ears seem big, And the feet seem big, And I raise my glass To toast the good times over. And I've thought an awful lot of the old days When the world was young and the women were flowers, And the sun shone brightly, And the men were strong and the women were fair, And the only thing that was hard to be was old, And the only thing that was froward to be was young. And the story of the parson that rode beside her On the black horse, or the tale of the magpie mending a child When the moon was high, And the smoke was blue like the sail of a great ship, And the parson, I think, was rather more spruce than he ought to been, For, you see, he had preached all that God had said to him About the women and the beauty, And the stories were true,-- The magpie had seen, And he felt he had a right to the little dumb child, And he put up a brave face, And he saw that the parson was wrong, And he turned his back, But the parson would never forget That he saw the man who was supposed to be a fool. Oh, I had the whip, and the store, and the good coat on my back, And a warm fire to keep me warm, And a glass of orange juice to fill me with content, And a song to sing, And a woman to love, And a lover to talk to, And a chance to win, And a room in the next cot to sleep in, And the privilege of talking and singing to her, And the privilege of singing a little, And the right to die content, And the privilege to die, And the power to raise the dead, And the privilege to raise, And the privilege to save the dead, And a chance to forget, And a chance to forget, And the privilege of power to save, And a sword and a vesture and a song to sing, And the privilege of the sword and the vesture, And the privilege to take And the privilege of taking, And the privilege to take And the privilege of changing, And the privilege of changing, And the privilege to take And to lay And the vesture to wear, And a room in the next cot to sleep in, And the privilege of laying, And a little warm water to keep me warm, And a good book to read, And a share of the fruit of the vine, And a little garden to walk over, And a cup of good wine, And a wall for the evening's den, And the store of the wine to keep me going, And a closet for my treasure, And a little garden to stow And a place for the evening's den, And the privilege to pray, And a place to pray, And the privilege to pray, And the privilege to change, And a place to change, And the place to change, And the power to forgive, And the power to forgive, And the throne of God. I stood with my family in a crowd, A proud crowd, I felt, for the halloge of the song Was not a sorrowful, proud crowd, but a sad crowd Of souls passing into sorrow, I felt as if I were shut out from the gates Of Paradise, A dark curtain, with a purple tremor in it, Was moving in my spirit As I listened to the psalm of my father, And saw my hopes tremble In the eyes of my children, As I watched them silently move about The room to pray In the light of the hanging cypress boughs In the room of my father. I hear the bell from the adjoining room Call the pious souls that have made provision For the week's repast, Out of the prayer-tree, As I fill my heart with a secret sorrow That will not be spoken, It is as if I watched my children Sink downward into Hell, I thought of the days when I would carry Their little shoulders, When we would take a camping in the woods And wander homeward, Or ride when the morning was white With flakes of the feathery leaves of the pines And the dew on the blooming plum-trees, And the chirrup of the raccoons in the leaves, And hear the raccoon's reminisce, Or smell the bourbon in my nostrils, As I sank in a seat with the back to the door, And watched the wild ducks come home with their brood, Or the woodchucks in the smoke of the campsite And the family of geese that came with them, Or the white nose of a bob-white that came With his young in a jetty off to the side, To guard the nest, And I would see the sky Blaze up in the sunshine For a moment, And hear the first notes of the symphony That is ringing in the people's ears, But never mine, And turn to my clay-cold, red-faced brother Who ate, and laughed, and slept, And never sang to me, And sang not to his brothers and sisters, But only to his gold-haired sister Who packed his dinners, And laughed in his slumbers, And I, the orphan of a gambler and a whore, Was glad when the year's last fox saw his wife Fingersmithing on the wall a mirror Where the faces of my friends were seen, And I saw my face On the painted surface, But not my brother's, So never once in my bosom did spring The seed, That in each heart love grows. And, as for my father, I never knew The tears he brought to his friends, And never kissed his hand, Never drank his sweet tea, But only saw him on the tram, Wearing a plume, And heard him speak His Sunday sermon In the hallway Of the funeral. I am sitting in the sun, I am sitting by the river, I can hear the plash of the wave, And the repetition of the crow Over the railway track In the dusk. It is good to be alive and free, A wind in my face That sighs and licks the sides Of the boat that runs softly in its place By the sinking bank, And the wind in my ears That answers the singing of the sandpiper. And my heart turns and yearns To the music of the wind, And my heart yearns and yearns To the music of the flowing stream, As I wade for it In the mirror of the river, And I wade for it In the mirror of the burning sun. I am sitting in the sun, I am sitting by the river, I can see my brother Trying to cross the grassy place, But I do not stop And I do not turn To look at him, But I wade For it, And I wade For the little you that is not me. From our houseboat we set out Where the shores of other waters Are mixed with our own, Leaving Fair Isle behind Where the last dark bar has run Between the morning and night. From the houseboat we set out Where the shores of other waters We left long years ago, Leaving Fair Isle behind Where the last dark bar has run Between the morning and night. It is morning on the earth, And a bar of golden cloud Plays over bay and lea, Disturbing not our rest While over Barowa's snow The peak-conducted mists do pass. It is morning on the earth, And a bar of golden cloud Plays over bay and lea, Disturbing not our rest While over Barowa's snow The peak-conducted mists do pass. In the houseboat on the bay Our children wait for us As we lay us down to sleep, And it is morning on the earth And a golden golden cloud Rocks over Barowa's snow Which our feet have never trod. In the houseboat on the bay Our children wait for us As we lay us down to sleep, And it is morning on the earth And a golden golden cloud Rocks over Barowa's snow Which our feet have never trod. The North Star stood upon the clouds The Bull sat in the pasturelands, The Oven-knave climbed the chimney-pot The Wolf slept in the full-horn bay, The Ant crept from out the lane, And the prentice made his fire. The Star stood in the heaven The Bull lived by the grazing lands, The Oven-knave in the half-ornament, The Wolf lived by the forest shore, The Ant ran through the sheathing timber, The prentice made his fire. The Star ran in the heaven The Bull lived by the grazing lands, The Oven-knave in the half-ornament, The Wolf lived by the forest shore, The Ant crept through the sheathing timber, The prentice made his fire. The South-Star, shining through the clouds, The Bull lived by the grazing lands, The Oven-knave in the half-ornament, The Wolf lived by the forest shore, The Ant ran through the sheathing timber, The prentice made his fire. There was a lad, and he had brown hair, And big eyes, and a dimpled chin, And he was not very handsome, you bet, And he never had a cent to his name, But he danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to-do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to-do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to-do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sang a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sung a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "Oh, here's to you, little old me, And a little thanks for a good to do, Who was not very handsome, you bet, And I didn't have no cent to my name, But I danced all the night away, And sung a song all the live long night, And it wasn't very long, And it went like this: "A-bed or up, when Spring's begun, Why dost thou stay to fin' Hymn One? Why, wherefore, with dull'd eye Dost question of what deeds are done? Of evils past don't pedant now; Leave such things as now they're done to The hands that wrought 'em,--far better saved For our last commemoration Woe Of deeds of yesterday and morn! Hear what Greenwood has to say Of Wilson's tricks, and how he's tried To hoodwink us with this Big Bill. And why, he adds, he won't give The details of what Wilson thinks, Or e'en allow that Wilson cares A pinch what he thinks. "I've talked to Wilson," says he; "He knows as well as you do That a pound would be too much. So, without any more delay, We both will go away, And seek the secret and the patch, Without the mask of public shame, Without the mask of public praise, "And having found it, if we can, Let's keep it," says he; "And having found it, if we can Let's fiddle but the leaves again; And having fiddled them all over Let's see what we can't tune again; "And having fiddled them all over Let's see what we can't tune again; The stars, perhaps, or the summer rain Perhaps--if any things are near That can be pictured--then perhaps But let's not fiddle after all; Let's let the sheets be laid aside And be found at a better rate." And so he talked, and what he said Of men and wines and women's faces Might give his brain a spasm, But still he did it, and, as way It seemed to bring his fortunes ne'er To better ones, by and by The bubble burst, and he was down At second hand to worse and worse, And never a moment did prevail 'Twixt first knowledge and second knowledge. And so he came to find, Too late, too late, as it were, And having failed in it he was down At second knowledge and to what It was that first he found as a hop And a jump to the bottomless pit. He saw the fool that he had been, And saw the mistakes he had made, And saw how one feeling of the mind Aflixed another, till he found His first idea (and the best) A motion picture, showing the spirit Of all his blunders, and those that Were made after reason knew how His noblest spirits had borne sway, And all the world's first foolishness That ever man did let loose. And yet the best, and what he found Was something worse than that, For he saw that there was a hell For those who life such stuff did make, But those that did not (which made The cream of all this ill-fed game) Be damned, while those two did make Nothing of life but mischief. 'Twas at the Royal Foote in July The worthy Sir Robert Peel, to-day Most honor'd, to his lordhips said That he had the honor to be Honored, and, on that same day, Set up for a candidate For Parliament, which he most wished, Being himself a good and decent The new Player, to make his preparations For the road, as he had directions To take them, to call at all the cots And all the stations, and there to greet His entourage, and to invite all The electors whom he should encounter, Save those two, whom he was slow to invite, Being in a hurry to get through His business at Court, and being afraid (perhaps) some of them might be displeased That their Elector had run away to play In all the haste of his escape, and get Out of the way in time, he had forgot That he had two friends--Brackenbury, Lord Who was as constant to him in spirit As any one he had ever known, And Gildippes, Queen of China, who sent Her own ship's complement to go with him, Which might be said to go with him against His will, but that was an adventure Of course. He now had all his baggage conveyed Within his barge, and every creature Went on board except the two, who stayed behind Conceal'd in a private barge until He should have offer'd them a ransom. But Brackenbury landed from the ship Which he had to Portsmouth made last evening, And when the cocks crow'd and merles sang he sail'd Along the river bank to Kingston; And there he landed, taking with him His father's ship and his nephew's ship, Which, by the by, that evening had been both Drawn down to their bottoms, for the night Had now past and the sun was set. He land'd both ships, took them on shore, And tow'rd his own house drove both men Into the church-yard, then walk'd up and down The sounding beach, talking with himself, What course to take, what companions to take, What trick to play, what bribe to offer, what bond To sell them at a higher price, what interest To set, what double amount to print, What different fortunes each might bring. At last he drive'd out of the door Which opened at his whistle, and drive'd His two attendants in the fourth, A very good fellow-river, A fisher, whom he had brought to town To join his family, and be their friend. He had in the mean time both towns Visited, and all persons in the same Disposition as themselves, and when He went to Kingston, he took also His brother-river's wife, and all his grain Which she had not sold already, and Which lay unsaleable in her hand. This was an excellent article of food, Which in that season it was but right That all should prepare for winter with, When none should suffer hunger, and none die From want, and every mouth should be fed. For though the wind blew harshly yet, the seas Might wash it up for those that wanted it, And Providence would help him that needed. And here I leave him; for besides the fact That I write verse, I have other merits, Besides the titles of the songs I make, Which all can read, besides the fame the fame Of the best and finest of all poets that Ever lived, which the fool Paschal Envy never yet did reach or reach (Save that I live as he, I work as he, And I sing as he, although the fools Are the pre-eminent and universal fools With regard to all things but the most And latest, they being but the most the maddest When the greatest must be the most dangerous). For never yet was ancient or modern More witty than he, nor the most modern (For all the most brilliant since Alcestis) More devout; nor one of them the least Delighted with their work, nor more agreed In their real or frippery companions. O hapless age! Now, now, while heaven's wounds bleed And earth shakes from the blow, As if some crag of Alleroe Doubted whether to cringe or grin At the whirlwind-gusts that drove Her tossing hills to and fro, To thee, O thou most Holy, I appeal, Thou that didst defend and rescuedst The Holy Virgin from the traitor Whose lewd embrace was all her shield From thy dear feet falling out Of their blessing when the foe Gasped and died, with many a groan And bitter take that thine own had wrung. I, that so fondly had lov'd thee, To spare thee in my tears did fear Lest they who did succeed thee Should make thy offices mannish And thy service servile to dust, And smother in manhood that alone Thou art great and noble and splendid And dost adorn the world with bright, Thine only work that noble face, My mother, now, most Holy, I Crying most Holy, thou hast err'd And art to-day most unworthy, And no man may accept thee, Save only me, O Blessed Michael. And if thy people say unto us: Come forth of us, from what rest By night or by day, or ever We rest or be refreshed, Come forth of us, our peace return, Or we be not driven afar, Come forth of us, we say, The flesh must be, and perforce We must feed on it. What is thy soul's content? What is thy heart's desire? Surely it doth covet now What ever breath of speech Is giv'n it, now, to say, Come forth of us, our life return, Thy soul doth crave How frugal is thy spirit, my Sweet, Who never aught receiveth But gladly at thy hand doth yield His heart's rich pledge, my Queen, my home, His life and very name! Yet if to us thou wilt come, It shall be ours to make thy throne Our court, thy bride-bed, thy realm, And garden-plot, my home, my rest, All made thine by our prayer. Nay, thou wilt come if we will come, And thou wilt leave all these; A cross on our faces we'll have, A tomb, a hearse, and slumber. Come, come, though we may not choose, Come come, come, come; be merry, Come, Come, come, come. O smile, we have lived and loved, and died, Ah, the proud heart's curse, If, when the body lies with rest, This seems not sheer delight, To think how many of our peers Are cursing here! Come, come, come, come; be merry, Thee, Thou loveliest in woof, The saints will never know us here, We'll but change our pillow, And change our names; when sleep dooms Our souls to dust, It may be different names Have different meanings. We have thought of the things above But one cannot see The beautiful splendour of the throne, The beautiful glory of all things, But one who's dumb. In our heart of hearts believing still, What are we, and what are they? What blessedness, what bliss is ours, If we're not sure? I heard a loud thundering, And many "Shakers of the earth" Cried, "This is the hour When Messiah shall come, And make a world for ever, With peace and plenty to all!" I heard a dying voice say, "Let there be light!" And there was light, And the wall of the grave Was standing in the sky, Full, round, and strong. And all the dead that had died In the old time afore Came to life; and there were told The good news by the voice Of the preacher who died, The preacher who preached So long ago. And he baptized them, All the dead who died for their sins, In the waters of baptism By the preacher who lived, The preacher who made (So long ago) A vow of life. He took up the cross, And on it, like a far-off sun, He placed his head, And soon Christ was to take His rest On the preacher's bosom And never more must He live Like any living man. A little child was sitting by His side, And said, "Little baby, pray, If you will, for I go to school; And when I come back, my master Will not be very well." "I will go too," the child said, And went to school and came back, And when her master heard the baby's cries He could not keep his mouth shut. But the child had a good report, And a great cause did have; Her teacher gave her an order, And she was enrolled in the church; And every Sunday night She stood by the bedside Of her dying master, and told The poor woman's last words to Him. And many who heard how sweet and clear The woman's voice was hearing now, Came to celebrate the holy birth With her the savior of the world. And all the people came, And the broken-hearted mother, And the little child that stood by, And tears on the cheeks of every one, And many tearful eyes were praying. A boy was playing by the stream, And heard a voice singing there, And soon he ran down to the water To see what that voice was singing; And there stood little Robin, His hands up above his head, And on his tambourine Was dancing, dancing, So fast and so far away. "Little baby, sweetheart, Wilt thou marry me, darling?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I call thee little, Or call thee long-legged, Robin, the steed," Said little Jack, And looked at little Robin, And said, "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I make thee shoes, Or find thee aprons, darling, Robin's socks, or furs, To go with thy Robinhoods Thy eagles, thy guardians?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I give thee money, Or find thee bread, my Robin, To feed them in thine halls, Thy burghers, thy robbers?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I give thee money, Or find thee bread, my Robin, To eat in thine own halls, Thy nobles, thy overlords?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" Then little Tom Bell patted his friend, "And shall I be thy guardian, darling, Or feed thee in thine halls, Or clothe thee when they sing At thy coronation?" "Oh, gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" And Tom answered, his voice overflowing, "Gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "And shall I call thee little, Or call thee long-legged, Tom, the horse?" "Then thou must marry me, darling, Or feed us in thine halls, Or clothe us when they sing, At thy coronation." "Gaily, gaily, I'll marry whoever Thou choose to love me!" "Then let us marry," said Robin, "And let us be married, So together we may die; And let the graves be deep and yonder In the cricket stadium, And our obsequies be few, But our reunions ever massed On the first Thursday of the month." They laughed; but deep was the silence That was broken by the soprano Who sung the second hymn; And she sang a few bars from the "Temperatur," And the people were again amazed, For never had they heard such music, And the congregation prayed together, In their "new covenant" of love, That through the hymn they might be heard, And the strange song by the sea; And they spoke in tongues that night, In the cathedral by the sea. And the next day was spent in pleasure, With the Thursday chapel prayers said, And sweet communion in the deep, That the people never knew, Till the week was ended on the cliff, On the Thursday of the month; And on the stairs of the little garden, By the lilac-scented sea, "Sweet days of my childhood!" the mother said, When she reflected on the sweet, strange years-- The days of joy, and the beautiful sunshine, And the little healthy children who smiled At her, as she sat at the window, reading The paper with the "pleasing prattle." "Now a thin, disheartened voice comes again With a story of grief and of bitterness. In a land I have not heard, nor seen, Lest we have met, though ten times I recall Your face, and the hand that I pressed In memory of you in the spotlight." A most peculiar youth was he, His manners were free and his speech was free, Yet something in his eye spoke he knew Of a "safe, dry dress" when his own cheeks Were a remix of the blisters and bluster That he was compelled to bear in his fight. It was a most peculiar youth, And a bird of an unusual kind. He spoke not, but let fall from his hand The letter that was finished and ready. The Captain looked up from his newspaper And he saw, as he glanced over the bulletin, That his son-in-law was in his boat, With a letter in his hand that he said Fell from the pocket of a Warsaw liberator. And he saw that the son-in-law was wearing The uniform of the Polish Army. "The Polacks?" said the Captain. "Yes," said the Chaplain. "I thought you were getting some of them." "Why are you sitting in a boat?" asked the Captain. "Now, sit there on the sand, and get some cool water, And take it out of the winds that are driving us back, And let me have it, for the warmer I am the better. The sand here is more suitable," The son-in-law promised. "There's your uniform," said the Captain. "Take my word for it," said the Chaplain. The boat was a bare one, but a snug one, And the son-in-law thought it apropos That his was a greener uniform. There was little enough to do With the Captain and the Chaplain, So they filled the time by reading aloud The whole family was amused To see the letter that fell from the hand Of the young soldier to his mother. It was from an English camp in France, But he was only a boy, and it told Of hardship, and of dangers unknown, And of scenes that were better far from home; It was all one bedlam, all the same. And all he could do was to pray That his mother were in safety and health, That she might continue to love him with a love On the promenade after dinner The husband sat, his mind passing To thoughts on foreign countries unknown; And a stranger's hat on a stranger's head Seemed an efficient safety-valve. But his wife, the kindly hostess, Whispered to him that the newspapers All ran on exactly the same, And that they must have a protective syndicate. So the talk, like a good shepherd, Goat, sheep, duck and weasel, Or as a good shepherd himself might say, Was a very interesting thing. And they all were for open war With Kaiser Temerko, Till his little son began to speak. The First Lady's brother Was not at home; he was to Rome Looking after the arrangements Made by the Polish Legation. But his wife was present, and it was she Brought the news back to the Captain and the others. Said the Captain "We must act, or we shall lose!" And the Chaplain "That is my wise sense." Then the wife of the Polish legation Came to the platform; and the argument Spoke in this woman's mouth, as she always had, "It is best, then, leave the question at present, She could say or do, and in this way Make the boldest poet of the time Believe she was only a priestess, Or imagine the finest gown in white Was hers, because she kept after it With a view to becoming a saint, And had some Pythagoras to do In the pure realm of fancy. And this was all quite well enough, For her life had been all pure fancy. And so the little wife of the legation Took the Pinsk Gazette, and read The story as thus:-- "A German officer Found a dead man on the street; His face was bloody and white, And externally appeared The marks of a ghastly wound. "The body was brought to the Czechołmar street, Where a crowd had gathered and shouted 'Arrest!' 'Was this the fellow who came here a month ago? His face was distorted, and his eyes Were wide with terror, and we found, too, A sabre and a bullet hole in his breast. "'Te Rebojna was the name he used to live by, A damned ugly name,' said the German Consul. 'Te Rebojna has an ugly meaning, you know, And this name is a deadly poison. No more on earth can I find such a soul; And yet he used to live here, and go about In clothes just freshly washed and in new caps.' "The Germans were most anxious to have proof Of the existence of such a danger To their country. So they brought along a Polish Police Inspector, who went along the platform And then turned and walked back again, and then Marking a spot upon the pavement quite black, Laid down his wands, and pulled up his overcoat. "'I know this ground,' said the German Consul, And he pointed to a patch of it. 'This is the spot,' said Te Rebojo, 'from now On all executions will be here.' The Polish police, who were present there, Were rather sick at heart, and wished him To carry on his business in some other place. "'There's a cross at the corner stone,' said the Consul, 'And here with good luck you'll get a head; But what's more important is to know If in this house there is a man.' The Germans said they did not know; But they knew that there was no human head In the house, because the Germans have A law that no Germans shall be seen In any place where human heads are. "So to avoid detection, and with the Germans Going home, the body was placed, And the last wicked act was added to The crimes that German perfidy had committed That morning in the tower. "But the Captain's lamentation When he reached home was a sad one; For it seemed that on that day He was no longer the same man. His brow was downcast, his eye was red, His every feature showed distress. "'Oh, me!' he said, 'in sooth, it is a jest, But I can't help feeling that there is a truth And that it hurts me deeply, I confess And yet I cannot bring myself to speak. And how is my wife? Has she heard this too? Oh for the truth will she ever forgive!' "The Captain he had left his wife a widow Three months or more before; and she A few days after her husband's death Was at home with the widow's mite. She met her friend and said to her 'I give My life to the service of a wife'; And that was all she said. "Her friend looked at her, and in her turn Recalled with emotion the day Of her husband's death. And then In a tone of commendation said To her: 'You have been true to your vow; You have borne your own.' "She said to her friend, 'She was true To the vow she made to me, to you, And so I thought it only just I seek your blessing to extend Unto my children and my mother, Because of the great love she has shown Upon my death-bed.' "Her friend replied: 'I bless and greet Thee and thy children ever.' Then she spoke of the pride of the deceased, The beauty of the wife, the mind, And the keenness of wit; And concluded with a warm embrace, And a tender 'De bene!'" When this was said The widow broke away from the other And she left her room, And upon the promenade She and her daughter made their lament, Which greatly cheered the Captain, Who had been sadly worried By the prospect of his wife's delay. And he was glad to hear the good news Of the day so well spent, And he spoke of the beautiful face Of his dead daughter, saying: "She had no fault in faultless form, No fault in faultless face, But she had been filled from top to toe With the true holy faith; And this was the cause that I loved her so." The other told of his own early love, Of the days of happiness and bliss, When he was a prince and he had palaces Sounding with mirth and laughter; When his soul had such desires, such fire, That in every plan and act he thought Of making life be more dear. And the memories of times past he found Mingling with the present joys, And he said with a tender sigh: "When my heart was at its height, There came to my home a stranger, His features were sad, his eye was bright, But to all other men the same And mine were known as hope and zeal; But my heart was lost in despair That no dear wife I had. "And this was the cause of my suffering, That my wife was not at home; And with longing and helplessness My life was passed away; Till my children grew and I could not, Because my love had fled, And my children's children came, And my name was vilely miscalled And they said: 'The Captain's a monster Who leaves his family, And no longer cares to be A happy home-owner, While his Captain's not at home To take his children into His protection and care. We see no more of Captain Fearnaught Till the war is over.' "We saw but his empty ship, And I heard no more of her Till the mist came down and covered her, And the wind that had carried her Came back with a vengeance, And the squalls came shrieking around And the mists rose and lifted, And the mist came down again, And I saw the Captain's Castle, "But to-day, when I sit at the meal, And the company is hearing, And I wish to speak, but silence joins me, And I keep my thoughts to myself, I do not seem to have the power, And the visions come and go, And the hopes I thought were secure Convey to other lands; "But I have another wife, With children and wealth and fame, And I think of her in good humor As I sit here in my cell, And I seem as if in good humor As I sit here in my cell." What would you? I? You thought you saw her Stand by the mast-head decking Herself in the glooms of dawn, Staring through the mists that hung low Like a black sail-fin driving With its image to the shore, And look as a dead person looks Who knows the gale will burst In a moment and kill him? Did she die at last? Did the sea Send her to her grave? Did you hope on, without a pain For your lost hope to find? Was your ship all right? Was your crew In love and adventure? Did they leave you in the bay As you entered and left? And how do you feel? Do you hide Here in this dark cell, All alone, and think of her As you watch the waves boil by, And see your own fair face In the gray twilight fog, And the cannon's roar? The shadows lengthen in the cell, The shadows lengthen, And the great sun sinks to the west, The great sun sinks to the west, The morning thrills through the wall, And the sunlight hangs on the walls, And the sky is all alive, And you feel that you have a wife, And that her life is dear, And you look through the window, And you hear the shore-birds singing, And you feel as though a heart You understood better than others, And your thoughts have an end, And the walls are cold and gray, And you dread the stormy gust, That you dare not wait for, That they roam the air and bite, And their breath makes the mist and rain And drifts about the roof, And the winter evenings are cold, And the day is long, And the light is the light of the moon And the dark is the night, And the time for your prayers is over, And the time for your tears is near, And the world has become too much And the friends you loved so much are gone, And the candle burns alone And the mother has died and the child, And the old season is coming on, And the shadows in the wall are heavy, And the shore-birds sing not, And a star is shining in the west Over the city that you knew, And the holy waters murmur <|endoftext|> When he had told the sorrows of his chase Unto his men, and all the fearful thing He through the world had seen and known, and felt, Unto his men he said: "Lo, here comes one, the strangest of the crew, He seems a good man, and hath a fair hearth, And by himslef the magi wends his way, To seek the Grail and the Lords of Heaven, He seemeth a good man, and is hardy, I will unfold my mystery to him. He hath a shield that is red gold in hue, It hath a strange device on the front it hath, I will not say his name is not fame, For it hath seen the face of God on high, But 'tis graven with the name of Cupid. And he hath a mailen, that he heareth nought, Of all the serviceable gifts of Christ, It is the best of all, by any sky, It cleaveth thine enemies asunder, Unto his feet hath it been fitted, It hath the magic of the magi'l, For it hath wrought the death of many an foe." And, in this mystery of the house of God, Theo-demons, with subtle-sitted jarrings, Now saw they seemed to win a victory; For these were all men of evil faith, For them they brought the terrible temptation, Glad overture, glad boon, to do their evil will. But as a man who hath a gift well won, And carefully of his heart doth keep it close; Who, in his pleasure, boasteth, "I am good," And in his grief, "I am ill-distanced;" So these, in battle and in woe, were glad, They to deceive their fellows were grieved, With secret lust for blood, to slaughter all Who to their evil will went willingly. Then these bad sons of Hell, thus flaunting Their ignorance, proudly boasted, "We are wise, We wisest of all that live; we see no sign, We mark no trace of divinity On any human face in heaven or earth, None in the skies above, nor on the earth below, That speaks of Creator or third Power." And others again, of more cruel kind, With words like these were nobly proud: "Behold, We see no soul that ever died in Hell, That ever gave up its spirit to God, Or mingled with the great One in the love of God. Nay, ye are weepe even as those we mourn, And weep as weepe ye, who have no heart to sing. Nay, ye have left your throne, and royal seat, And sacred ministry, and heavenly charge, And earthly keys, and oppresson dark, And carnal faith, and bestowison wide. Well ye know that the true light, dispending From heavenly lights, doth ever shine about, And love is in all things, nor aught remains Unpowdered, unimpaired of all hurt, Whate'er the shroud, what the sheen." Such were their words, and idle words at most, And witlings at the most, as at their feigning. The other sort rejoiced to see the chain Dissolved, and were much stirred by good in them And by the brazen trump, and by the fire, And by the slain, and by the glory round, And by the life, the honour, and the bliss, The sad things were omitted, and the strings Were tightened and relaxed in many a knot. And so the sun rose on their fast fading, They that had been too well-disposed in Hell To ever sympathize with life in Hell. And now, the gates opening, and the souls Which had died here, rose from their eternal graves, And mounted up into the clouds, and passed Over the threshold of Hell's eternal gate. They merrily heard the music, heard The actors sweet, yet found herein no play, Nor will they now set forth, nor will they be. For they have passed the threshold of their bound, They have drunk the poison, and are dead to all, They have bathed in the wave, they have trod the mould, And shall not many days forget their pains, But lie in hell for all their malicious parts, And dwell in hell for all their treachery. At last they rose, and came to look abroad, And saw Hell fog on the marble mountains; The gates were opened, and they passed forth To the vile den where they had found their part, Their native place, their Theatre, their place of pain; They looked about, they heard the shepherd call, They heard the shepherd's arched word of dread, From the amid the smoke and bloody loam, And saw, with yawning mouth, Hell yawn and gnaw The victim by the sacrificer cast, The victim by the sacrificer slain, The victims by the sacrificer eaten; Then all the martyrs and the just departed From their own sepulchres and everyday laid In hell's agonies, and sucked sweet death By Satan's cudgel,--they beheld the place, Hell's agonies, sucked sweet death, they too, They beheld, and to their dying day will mourn. With thousands, they set forth to walk the moor, With thousands, and with twenty thousand more, And saw the water-drops, the running drops, The foaming torrents, rolling side by side, <|endoftext|> Thou knew'st him well; and all his warriors called him friend, And held him foremost in the battle. The head Is still his own, which in a moment he shall fling Down to the dust, like a foe's. But the long hair Falls in long tresses over his cheeks and lips, And those deep eyes, which then were gray, are deep now With life, and lighten to pity, and they seem Like the compassionate stars, that watch all the night For their slaves, who are forgotten in their chains. See, the poor fool is rocking his baby, And whirling her round and round. It's hard For him, poor pimping hack, not to run after His girls all dressed in black, and take them down From the cold door, and dress them in their best, And take them to the ball, and leave the poor baby To toddle with the rest, and strut and stutter, Like a proper baby, and smile and singing, And all the other paraphernalia Of pouting banquets and wrangled words. But he won't; he won't; he's thought of nowt! Poor hack, he's crazy over his own kid, He's taken her out to beg, and spilt the milk, And caught the crows in his MOPPER mamma, And split his legs, and had him carried round, And thrown in the dung-hill, and is paying For it all in Clam. But there's another thing. He is taking the baby to the church, To pray, and hears the minister say, In short words he will never forget, ''Tis there a grave and a judgment day is passed For all who do not heed the words of God.' Poor little devil! Why, I can tell you grim. He'll go to heaven when he has told his sin, And they will take him by the hand and take him in, And kiss him upon the mouth, and set him down Under a cold cross, and drop fat lives in Over his head till he gets up and walks, And turns his back, and for an hour or two Comes blundering round and falls over dead. Go down and sit by the fire. It is so very small That, all for my sake, I should be over glad: This taper candle I bear, Bright as the flax Is the flame from thine eye, Which is shining and bright, Flame for flame am I thy lover. Oh, I will go fetch thee a drink, Bringing the best I can; I will go fetch thee a dish Bringing thee bread and meat: I will go fetch thee a draught Of the wine of Rodope, For this is thine own, Thy own fresh wine and pure, Which thou hast bravely spent, Lifting the goblet up To my lips for me. Now bend thou over me there; And if I kiss thee there, Thou wilt let me kiss, And the kiss shall be for free, Free for food, free for love, Free for happiness, Free for what thou lovest best, And the most of all. I have to leave my father's home, Where I was born and bred. My mother has to go with him, To look after the farm, And mother's the cause why I must go, Because she has no hope Of making my child believe That she is well looked after When I am gone away. I must go from my father's home, Where he is old and poor. His little books and papers I'll take, And go to a city home, And mother will look after the child In the city home. I'll take my sister Mary, And my brother John, And my brother-in-law Frank, And my sister's husband Bill, And my father's house will be In the town where I am gone, With my children and Mary. I will go to a city home, Where I have people near, And my brother-in-law Frank, And my sister's husband Bill, And my sister's children will be All in the town where I am gone, With my wife and my brother. I have no hope that my father's home Will be the home I am going to. I have no hope he will live to see The money that I am going to. I am going to a city home, And my brother-in-law Frank, And my brother-in-law's the cause Why I must go, and take My sister Mary, and my brother, And my sister's husband Bill, And my father's house will be In the town where I am gone. Oh, I am going to a city home, And my mother has laid down Her cares, and my brother-in-law Frank, And my sister Mary's husband Bill, And my sister's children will be All in the town where I am gone, With my wife and my brother. I will go to my father's home, Where my life began: Where I had so much to do, My earliest childhood words. Where we drank punch left-to-right, And I had, I have, <|endoftext|> God dooms it; So that the maker never, In making of this creature, Believed he was designed In likeness of himself. Be thou, Little One, in all the years to be, A Saviour of children and of men! And when thou speakest to them by land or sea, Thou shalt be a Man among the sons of men. Thou shalt not have to blush, Little One, To know that Thou art beautiful and good! Now I know, with what deep love thou drawest, To be thy dear brother, To be thy tender, constant, loving friend, The Little, the Love of Christ, the perfect Friend! The bridegroom's vain, sensual love, Thy heart's pure prayer and dream No mortal can fulfil; They may fail, as fickle, vain men's do; But thou shalt ever be the purest gem The Little Kid Who met St. James's Tram In London once; The Child, who once Did on its painted sides The lordly lion stript, The lordly bear And other beasts and birds Let slide, to have The little kid Patched London white, With his precious mouth And hand-ten-ned nose. And, oh! the evening crow Did blithely tell How he did there Find the little lad And his mother, play At table all day. Thus every day The poor little kid Would sit and praise The things that were So good to see: The painted sides Of the lily-pads, The hand-ten-ned nose Of the lordly lion, The clipped coat-tails of the stag. All day long The Little Kid Would rub and tickle His fancy With a kind of phlegm-dream, A phlegm-dream Of sweets that had No name of their own; And in his dream, St. James's Tram And all the boys At play with him. And at night, When his night-long phlegm Rang in his face, He would lie and tickle His phlegm-dream In full church-time, And the Great White Bird Would sing the work The Little Kid had done. The clothes that he had on, With a hole in each, And ragged sots Where every stitch Was bare to the top; The hole in the togs Where the tail had been; And bits of hair, Where the hole in the togs Had been for shanks Of shoe-leather; And bits of mittens Where the hands had been; The hole in the sots Where the mouth had been; The soot on the tail Where the stags had been; The soot on the face Where the rooks had been; And tops that had lost Their fringes of white And frills of down; And bits of gloves That had lost their fingers; The soot on the back Where the roaches had been; The soot on the ears Where the crows had been; The little tot Who clings to his mother, In a manner-- Because she is seven-- And makes her such a fuss, She makes his clothes A leaven At the Eastern window. But the town's a sad place at night, And the Little Kid's a sadder cut, He knows 'tis so, But, oh! 'twould be a lot less sad If the mess we're making Were like some good old-featured meal. I would eat there At the Char-rana Table, 'Tis such a delicious place, With eels from the "Salt Water" Pool From which you dined for a song. The bread that you ate from, A treat for you to hold, The luscious salmons and pistachios That you ate from, Oh! that were a treat indeed To take from the Pool of Good Beers! There's pistachio-crust And rosemary-crust And tepid honey-cookie crust And bread from the West Bank, And bread from the South, And bread from the North, And everything under the sun That you'd think a crust to be! I would eat there At the Char-rana Table; I should sit under The blue-black ceiling That seems to shine And serenely renders To the senses so sweet The grace of your home, The glamour of your face! And, as there we sit together I'd let your right hand rest, And with your left hand Seem to make a river I would go A-wading in that river, 'Tis a beautiful deep water And has a wonderful sound; I'd go where its banks are bends, And, a-dipping my toes, On its crystal points I'd look As if the light were beams From your tender eyes. I would watch the water Until the glory Of its brightness I'd see As if 'twas some new-born fire Burning in your glittering eyes, Or the jewels of the stars Flung from their beds in snow. Then I'd plunge a Mule in it, 'Tis a mighty deep water, And I should leap in, and start The red-whiskered pike Far out on the pull-rod With a lion-head as sail, As if I were leaping In a mermaid's lap! And I'd toss you a handful, <|endoftext|> a pair of hairy nipples, a cleft in the hollow of his chin, and only the saddest look of regret. The bow of the bellboy rattling in its case, the tinsel- whitish rainbow of balloons on his head, the feather of the dancer, his gray shoes sparkling, his bronze-colored skin, in pink stoles, the hoppers of champagne dropping from his fingers. Each has come for her lover, with flowers and the plump unsweet potatoes and the three-chambered heart, and the good cheeses and the three kinds of olives, and a third for good measure, for love and for remembering. And the good wines have been drinking, and are serving out the leftovers in baskets to lighten the load for the righters, who are standing apart to pass the plates and to take part in the pash-the-quadrille that is beginning to grow solemn. In the evening the old man's head has become entirely bald, and the red smock that covered his upper body is hanging in tatters on the shoulder; his limbs are crossed and weak, and he carries the heavy basket, that is swaying to and fro, and full of pungent cheeses, and boxes of wine from the cellar. At the rich odors of the dinner table the child becomes restless, and begins to fidget, and wants to run out to the meadow to get some fresh air, to hold in his breath the tang of the clove cigarettes, to snatch the pears from the branches, and himself begin to sneeze. He takes his milk-pail down from the counter, and finds the green rags at his feet, and with great grief and frustration throws them away, but his thirst only seems to burn stronger, and he feels that the basket is full enough, and the cheeses are not too hard to eat. But when the cheeses are put on the fire and spit into the basket, the boy must struggle hard to keep them warm, and looks at the ground in shame as he does so, and in silence swallows the bitter brine. He must hold the heavy cheeses, must put his own lips to the holes through which the wadding goes, and then put his nose close to the holes and blow into his palate the brine he has made himself. And at this moment of labor when the tongue and palate are strained with so much effort, something so strange is brought to light, and he sees the form of the cheeses as they smoke in the ashes, and a gleam of pleasant surprise comes over his face, and the cold in the throat becomes a warm feeling for the firm cheeses. And all at once the old man smiles, as if to say: "Why, you clever lad, so skillful to be hurting other people's children? There's something new here you haven't tried before. Are you German or American? Oh, you're so hungry you carry the basket on your head! Come, come, don't shirk my work, I'm willing to help you! Come under my wing, will you? I'll teach you to fill a water barrel and water two chickens. Two little white-headed goldfish sit in a blue basket waiting to be fed, and under the window-sill a small brown chicken is laying eggs. The white-headed goldfish have no eyes, but as the basket is lifted up one sees the little creatures with their heads blown-off lying about in a circle, one by one. The chickens are white with black heads, and to the right is a black-headed chicken, to the left a white-headed chicken, and one on the far side is layed- ting eye. The baskets on the counter are whited with brine. The old man has a stout frame, and scarcely lifts his right arm above his head for the stroke; but even so he lays out with energy and skill two white-headed goldfish, and water the third one. The wind is as soft as a feather, and the sky is blue, and the old man's beard is white as a milk-white hen's. The water is brackish; the sky is smeared with strata like a broken bas- tonny. There are little dry crystals that slide down on the chicken's tail and set upon the eggs like rain-drops. It is cold, and it is windy, the wind blowing over the housetops of the farm- stead, and it is windy and cold, and there is not a speck of green in the sky. Now the old man says: "Let us turn to evening life, and learn the way of the street and the ways of the town. "Our bread is but a broken crust, our fire a crackling straw, our shelter is the hollow of a tree, our shelter is the earth itself; there is nothing in this world of worth but the wind and the earth, and everything is ashes, and the way of the wind is over." But the young man says: "Let us find the way of the street, and learn the ways of town and street. "The old man's way is good and wise, and the new man's way is better and bolder, but neither is good nor wise, and neither better nor bolder <|endoftext|> Is found amid the least, And the least seldom falls in need Of that all-selecting care. No-one has it--and, lastly, It does not, never, meet the eye As a brick or a poll-parcel, But it is a springing, a springing thing, A field-guide, a pathway, whatever Of gift Nature makes it for man. Not so the madcap peats that seek For that far western marbled beak In which to set us adrift, Or the mackerel that waits for such peats, Fond to be mashed and to make us souse; For we have come--the canny lot-- To take upon us to be seers Of things the plain men scarce can see. O night of the world! O passion of the world! In thy lusty noon-yellow heat How lovingly thou pressest and caresses, Kissing, enticing, tempting me With thy bright lamp alight to flame and glow! Yet in all this brightness and liberty It is not the green field that I love, It is not the clear stream that I love; It is not the hedge of the woodland That I love, but the land that I love. There where the streams murmur and glide Through the grass-grown islands in the wood, And the merry birds sing their song of joy, And the sweet, wild air breathes of fern and fir Where'er they sing, in many a sunlit spot, O, there where the stream winds with a swift bend Through the mossy, green valleys, and the white Wide, sweet fields of the withering grasses, I do love the land that I love best. For 'mid the dimness of the lighted room, With the twilight of the half-lit moon, The soft glow of their laughter will meet And mingle in strange, sweet repartee; And while they quaff the nectar of the bowl, Each laughing eye will seek for the sun, And long lookers-on will see and laugh, Then, whispering, well like lovers will say: "O, how glad I are to know and to look That this is the land that I love best!" O, land of my fathers! O, land of the cotton fields, Where the old blues will come, and the new roses arise, Where the black gibbon feeds and digs his burrow, and the jaguar Feeds and digs, and many a bird feeds and digs, From the gold mines of Peru, from the purple fields Of the south, the spices of the tropics; Where the forests of cypress and the palm of the east Balance the slopes of the south and the north; Where the songs of all birds are blended and risen, Where the quiet and the forms of all flowers are Mixed, as if by a mighty symphony; Where the sands of many seas meet and make a bay, And the rivers of many mountains flow together; Where a mist rises from the wind of many mountains From the north, the east, the south, the west, And the whole bay is swathed in a white darkness, And the broad sky is red with the sunset; Where the ferny parks and the groves of the east Tremble and glow, and the tawny woods and the morning Melt with the light of the great, red sun; Where the rays of the sun kiss and make beauty At their feet, and the frosty hills glow With the sunset, and the waters glow Blue in the shadow of the man-hued tree; Where the breezes are humming and humming, And the leaves of the trees are all swinging, And the whole air is a sea of red, And the day is the glittering face of the sun, And the land is a golden hue, And the time is the stirring of the day, And the year is glowing and glowing, And the silver moon hangs over the sea, And the air is a coil of the air of noon, And the sky is a haze of the sun's last beams, And the streams of the winds of the day Dance with the twinkling of his beams, And the lightnings crack and crack and crack, In a roar of the thunders of the day; O, land of my fathers! land of the sunrise, And of the sunrise city! But thou, old California, Be wise and weary of my flirting; I shall never flutter thee with my dalliance. O, thou tall land in the far west! In the gloom of the far west! Wilt go with me then? To conquer and rule thee? To wander with thee? And thou, long California, Be wise and weary of my flirting; I shall never flutter thee with my dalliance. O, thou land of the pine-trees, In the far west! Wilt go with me then? To conquer and to rule thee? To wander with thee? The dark rose is gay on the wing, The sun hath left his couch of rest, And the lusty May is up and out, With a brisk March and a watch dog's career; The grey haw is flying by And the wild bird is on the wing, The first bluebird of the spring-- The whole earth is singing. The lark is in the sky With the thrush and the sparrow, And the star of brightest day, The little star of light-- They sing the song of love To the laughing air, In a merry, smiling, glad manner. I have done a bold deed, <|endoftext|> The club, not clambering, struck the ball; And Poljudale broke the point away Like dragon's tooth; and the King of Poland Cried out, "Poljudale! my brave Poljudale!" The bow and arrows, and the arrows' darts Were yet half-way to heaven, when the dragon's tooth Of Poland's weapon missed the goal and passed Without its goal; and again the volleyed flame From Poljudale found its way, and through the sky Ran its aim, and smote the wretch who dared to beat His mouth to that hot glowing orb, and crawl Hollowing back and clutching his hair away. And then in wrath the exulting spirit fled To regions of gloom and cloud, and the crowd saw The soldiers close upon him as he lay With his hands raised to keep the volley from him. As with tired wings he flew to reach the goal, There came a voice and one clear wail of anguish, And his mate, the spirit of his noble friend, Came in again, and piled upon his rack The agonized body, and drew back the hood And looked into his eyes, and said, "You shall live." And there was peace between them, and the name Of victim and of avenger seemed strange Together in one breath, and evermore That hero and his friend were linked together As long as might be, side by side, with those Who fought and fell that bitter day,--and yet The deepest fissures of their souls' loneliness Kept open. The hearts of all were surely touched When either one, that night, to the other cried "My mother, shall we see her again?" And she Was there. But they were still alone in that last wild Boundless space of wild-beating wings. "Yes," whispered Poljudale, "you may call it broken-winged The next best thing to Eden. So -- we're lost, And looking, lost, for ever lost. And now, good-bye. I'm going back for you." And off he went like a flash Upon the cheeks of Poljudale. And that was all. But those two, those friends gone in arms, Still stand in Poljudale's door, and look out through the dark Of that poor little roof, and cry for her, and wait For more than any nurse or any physician's skill To ease their sorrows, or rebuild their lives, or even To cure the pain they feel from wanting her. And now, Singing that song, they disappear into the night, The one friend less, and the other always one step ahead. All night they fade and fail, All night they dream of one another, Like two departeds that turn up one by one In the darkness and despair of the tomb; And now I hear a faintest twang of a bowstring, And see a little flame, and then not even a lamp, And feel my own faint life begin in a pocket, And follow as an after thought that will not die, Out of that dark, into that vast, deserted room, Where a broken lamp flickers red on a heap of rags, And an old-fashioned clock ticks from a nest of knobs. Who shall say if that arrow has streaked the vale Of many months before! But I know I feel The hour is near, and that the face I know so well, And that I loved last night, is standing in the light Of the great hall-room window, has crossed my path, And bowed herself against the lattice-bars To say good-bye, as I have done a hundred times, And will again, till the doom comes. The war is over. He has crossed the ford that runs under the mountain Down to the river, and is standing in the glare Of the orange-glare on the dark green plain, With arms folded close to hide his swollen breast And face grown white and waxen, as with rain. "God, I am sorry I ever met you In that black cavern where I fought with Fear, And shook him down, and drank his choking blood To draw new strength for the fight," he says; "For I have sworn not to kill until I see The sun on Trier, and Peace returned to Germany." He is sitting in the hall at that moment, With two books. One is crossed under his arm, Crouching along the wall beside him, held With outstretched hand; it is long and thin, But tatters do not hide it from the sun. It is not new; but he has lately received A copy of the first lines of some paragraph, Written in a rush, but thin, and smeared with ink. He takes the other book, a limp Massenet, And reads through to the end, then puts the second down And goes out into the open air. But even While he is taking the books back into the house, He sees the first little flash of movement under The half-moon. From under the balcony, A thin wind makes a musical hat-trick; And one by one the city lights go down, In sudden-flashing spires. Then comes the thunder, The dark houses starting into color, The jostling crowd, the anxious faces. "You will find a marble slab beside the grave Of each friend who trod this way," he says to me. "To be sure of it, take down each page you see, Flattened like leaves, then send them back here empty. And you will find a marble slab beside the grave <|endoftext|> A speechless spell Over the waters falls, A golden image Stands on the peak of Halkomen. 'Twas midnight, and ere the sullen wind Had reached the Isle of Averonets, When darkness on the plain was spread, And with it, silence on the air, The wind-god's heart grew sick and sore, And thus to Hades he said;-- "Ye godless blacks, whose darkening wings Bear you aloft, with stifled breath, The infamy of blood-guiltiness, And godless humans, with your blind Infidel face divinely white, Whose ears are closed to the Infant Jesus (Who, though he smile on all, is yet hideously dark!) Innocent eyes!--O, hear my prayer, (Now on the world's last shore stand I alone!) Innocent hands, whose precious charge Will e'en perish, if my prophecies, That fell so low, but reach the ears of gods, Come not to pass! If Zeus is good to me, And godlike men, on whom I've nothing to name, If those great ones hear my prayer to them,-- O, grant that they will hearken unto my words, And turn to truth, as once they were wont to do!" So prayed he; but the thunderous god, The loud-thundering Thunderer, heard not, Or if he heard, he was deafer stilled By the awful spirit of a child, A babe, in the arms of a swaddling-closet, Who sobbed aloud in her cradle-band; And the sound reached his angry ear, As thus the crying voice was heard. "Hear me, Zeus of the clashing hair, The strong one Zeus who rendereth men, Who laid heavy hands of doom on Troy, Whenas for me, in the Furies' hall, A woman bare me, and for my sake A god did pitying kindle a fire, And, turning it around, kindled it To flash against the Fates, and fall Thunder-hit against the madding earth, Then die into a flower which out-bloomst The world, as mine into fire. "Yet am I Zeus's child, Zeus's own joy, The only girl of all his delight; Yet am I Troy's, now, for I brought Troy at the last, with my tears' sweet rain, With my prayers, and prayers, and blood of mine, That at least my loved ones, who went with me, May live upon in one another's being. But, if my prayers have lost their heat, And if my tears have lost their plenitude, Then mine is fallen out, and mine is lost." "The fire," said Zeus, "shall have no power, Nor any power the Fates shall shift, But its flash to die out of heaven, As a flower dies, or a leaf outleap; The hearts of men shall leap up and blossom, And be whiter than the sea-flower's filth; But when the power of its light has passed, The hearts of men shall creep and their brightness perish." "Great fire," said every god, "now take A name, nor let the light go by! 'Tis the heart of fair-eyed Helen to Be witness to Zeus, and that heart's Heart's shall have a new name, too, 'Tis the new heart of Helen to Be witness to Zeus, and its heart's Heart's shall have a new name, too!" And the fire leapt to a glorious flame, And there leaping, it struck to flame-breathing All the hearts which were sweet to her, And its new name was FRUELTY. And, as when an eagle cleaves the sky, And lights on a herd that's wallowing Far out at sea from the kite; And he lights on the herd, and eats The hearts of all the hanging red, So the fire fell on the hearts to burn; And, lo, all the flames were bright with it, And so it lighted them to flame-breathing All the hearts it touched. Then said AEgis-bearing Zeus, "Is there no other way to end This plague of ours? There's no real ill In this, but still they seem to me Like real hearts, so let them burn, And call it art! The immortal Gods May quarrel as they may, for there Art is stronger than God-law; So let them burn, and call it art!" So said he, and they were mad with fire, And all in a moment overfed With flame, the godless-hearted crowd Over the land and o'er the sea Leapt from their ships, and in a shower Fell like a flood, and swept away Girt like a falling star. Then for three days the cruel fray Wrought by the wind against the foe Made little headway, and the Fates Scowered the peoples 'neath the ships, And on the fourth dark night, the sign Whereby the Gods watch for the end Of things, there met them, yea and there The Grecian dread in awful pomp, And dark as hell it darkened all. And many in the fray were slain, And Hector's heart was hard with fear, And his good steeds in spirit famished; And many a black death had his son Faced in that dread day of yore When round him like a burning wood, He strove to rally and repulse <|endoftext|> Where the purple shells lay soft in the hot Water and the dripping sea. All this has passed away and a new Day, a new life is begun. But in this first day of the new Life, this great day of crime, This greatest of all, The Law that we have broken Has left its indelible Mark on the soul of me. M. But is there not one And only one Who has borne our griefs And kept our hands from the knife? Nay, but one. There is no strength in the strong, No honour in the brave, No comfort in the pure, No joy in the feasters. M. Then all is well. There is nothing left to grieve for But only to kneel and pray That God's mercy may be softened For us, His children who have sinned. M. Come, brother, take thy rod and sword. And as the old day's passion wanes Let us kneel in silent prayer That God may pardon us for our sins. HELP, AUBURN MULGO's, courier, On whose skill the province rested, To say, O'er hill and dale To and fro, O'er hill and dale Crying, Help, Ould Durham! To say, O'er hill and dale, To and fro, Crying, Help, Ould Durham! Cried the lad, Cried the lad, "Mulberry night is near, And the mad battle's near; O, let me in, in orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or in orchard tree. Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree." So he sat him down, So he sat him down, And the young teapot spouted, And the young teapot cheered, And the young teapot cried, And the young teapot smiled, And the young teapot sang, "O, let me in, in orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or in orchard tree. Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree, Or, orchard tree." In his fur-robes walking, And his red rags thrown loose, Like a youth that tarries O'er his fair handmaid's wrist, Or her waist, Young Riley went a-martyrning; And God's arm was about him, And man's heart was a-beat-- Riley went a-martyrning-- God's arm was about him. I stood upon the brink of the house, Watching the dark; The splashing of the water beneath, The falling before it came, And after the torrent came the hail, Shattering high in the air; And how long the reverberation Made in the dark! I stood upon the brink of the house, Watching the dark, And I did not think of the dearth of bread And the terrible chastisement that Christ Must bring; I did not think of the worm that dies In the wallflower's cup, nor of the tallow That the Taylors burn in their firelit glow, Nor of the eternal torment that awaits The sons of the earth; I only heard the singing of the hail, Shattering high in the air, And hoped against hope that somehow the hail Would fall on the child I was expecting. "Come! I have much to tell you," said he, "When I have eaten, and have carnal pleasure, But the Bridegroom waits, and the Bridegroom hears; He will save me with the saving; Come, I shall tell you many things Of the secret soul of man, Of the life and the love that are in you, And the eternal will that underlies you; And what the Bridegroom saith, This for my final sleep, For this I go to the bridegroom, the Christ." "To the bridegroom, the Christ, O come!" And I lifted my eyes to the light, And saw the sign in the sky. And on the sudden bright Gleamed the light of the star that shines The throne of the Christ in the night. "O thou star, O thou rising, Dost thou bid him arise? O he sleeps, he sleeps not, He is as one dead! The night is a veil Falling on the face of God. "O thou star, O thou turning, Risen from the night, Where is thy fire, O where Thy fire, now shed and spent? All thy shed light is dead, And fallen is thy shed wit. The night is a veil Fallen on the face of God. "O thou star, O thou centre, Sought for in the night, Risen, where is thy light? Dumb is the face of God. The night is a veil Fallen on the face of God. "O thou star, O thou fading, Sought for in the night, Shall it ever fade? Shall it ever grow dim? Never, never, never! It shines to the end of time, And it shall shine to the end of time. "Fade, and fade, and fade! <|endoftext|> Our prayers, our tears, our blood, our hope, our fear, Our deafness, our martyrdom, and our shame. Thou hast given us women! we have gift given thee. Thou hast tried our mettle, and tried our strength. Thou hast crowned our humble prayer with power. The fate of nations! if there be a Fate, 'Tis thine to guide, and turn, and influence. If there be misery, or heart's desire, 'Tis thine, for thy stern command to hear; Thou hast given us the temper of the strong; And now thou leadest us, a little space, To win the entrance to the hall of prayer. I arise from dreams of the past, When summer was a wonder And the world slept, or dreamed as day, With an angry God above it And a longing for battle. I arise from dreams of the past To the sound of the battle horn, To march against my foes, to claim A realm for the noble and free, To lay my honor at their feet. I arise from dreams of the past When the world was full of hopes And I was but a boy, and there Was joy in the gleaming weapons And in the cheering words of friends. I arise from dreams of the past When my heart was an empty urn Full of pain and trouble and tears, And I was but a worthless urn, Stored full of bitterness and woe. The spirit of Freedom, like the wind, Is with me to the end of my days, And moves me to do what must be done, Now that my own is not to save. I arise from dreams of the past, To the sound of the battle horn. If I were dead, O world, I would wish thee so much, That thou wouldst give me to my bones An equal sendance every day: And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee For an extra share of sleep! If I were dead, O world, I would miss thee so much, That when I do appear, I should walk from me away As dew drops from the rose: And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee For an extra share of sleep! If I were dead, O world, I would miss thee so much, That when I do appear, I would stand from me away As an object be has stood: And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee For an extra share of sleep! If I were dead, O world, I would miss thee so much, That when I do appear, I would be like a spirit thought, That hath his movement fled, And in a universall flight Is now abroad through space and time. And if I should sleep, O world, I would dreams of thee Be as the stars be, to be The eyes of heroes blind, And lamps to be to sight As lamping spirits to it. If I were dead, O world, It would joy me more That I had lived to feel The defects of this life, And live to pass it by As one that did him best. And if I should sleep, I would dreams of thee Be as the stars be, to be The eyes of heroes blind, And lamps to be to sight As lamping spirits to it. These fair years of youth, When thou wert mine, When it was we, And we would have no more to fear Than life should fear to live; Those happiest years of all That I have known, Were the most of my days. Then came the terrible talk, When my spirit was rent in twain, 'Twas then thy voice that broke, 'Twas then thy looks distressing, 'Twas then, oh, so gently, 'Twas then thy words seemed wondrous kind. The story was new to me, Yet I could trace it, though it were not A pleasant tale to hear; For thy looks in those years of yore Were those of one that wept, And then thy voice was weak and gentle, And then it seemed as though it were thy own. I say not, 'Alas!' for I have learned What by the world is call'd love, A thing ungentle, and so mean, And, oh, so wretched far, I have learn'd it, and feel, and know, I could despise it if I would. For all the world may laugh at me, And say that I am crazy, 'Tis a world in which I cannot smile, I was once as thou seest me, And love was then as it is now; And could I laugh now, it were for love. Oh! could I forget thee for my own, And leave the world to thee, I would speak my mind and say as I have said, That the world's mad, and life is hard, And all are sad, and all are glad, And what's best comes worst as had been best. Then be it as thou wilt, and let me go, For the world has made me wise, To say that we are glad when we are sad, And the world has made us cold, And set my heart as thy heart was set, To be thy servant evermore. Thy mistral airs about the throat Wake memories in my soul, As distant music did of yore; I see thy hand and seek to take The symbol of thy love; Thy arms about me stirring up All my sad veins to tears. <|endoftext|> With every ray that kissed him. He gave his tears to light them, Took the ill wind as his sign, And felt hope and courage birth, And bade a happy day. He was a priest of the Lord, He knew his alms were useless, And the girl's false heart give way, And the world take note that he Was a sailor of the sea, And that the Lord was good. He held his ship to the beam, For the Lord would have it so, And there was joy and gladness In the eyes of the mates; And the spirit of valor Gushed from the deep-sea fount, Like a fountain of flame. In his small boat they steered it Along the foaming shore; The wind was high, the sky was blue, The sea was like a shroud; And he never would look at it, Or turn from that abysmal scene, For the face of God for ever, With a pensive gaze, he'd fix. And there came to his boat a man With a face like the bat's, And he said, "An I do count the eyes, There's not one we can spare." And the sailor took him in, And looked with a hardening eye At the face like the bat's, Then said, "An I do count the eyes, There's not one we can spare." The man in boat was a child And he cried for a long time, Then said, "O ye stars, to and fro, If ye had a Lord like me That I'd ride a broom to the masthead, And take a ride like the bumble-bee." The wind goes sighing down the fallow, The wind goes wooing the weir, Heavy bars the widow's door That once was open wide. With ragged clothes about his neck The figure appears to stand, And to the world he seems to say, "Thy hand's in my Death's! "Is he breathing, lady, sleeping, Is he living, dame, or dying? And if thou canst not give me air, Take from me, all thou wilt, A curse thou canst not avoid. I've dared my vow to keep. The hand of Death is on me. In vain my love I've known. But thou--thou canst not hear him, Thou canst not see him, While he fares upon his flying wings Through the realms of being!" But now, as he looked through him, The form of the figure grew To winged stature and swarthy skin; And he walked the airy sea, And seemed a corpse from the housetops, He glided over halls of stone, And o'er deserts of fire. Then straight his speech the shade repeated: "Thy vain requital fills me To utter many words of scorn, For thee, and for thy lover, With wild words of truth. Go, if thy love for me Need turn thy words to blows, To fight for me at Cauld-regals, On my hoverboard, On my heaven-made battleship, And I'll slay you, woman, With my flying harp!" A time there was when they who rode the stars Would scatter gold like dew, But now to meet on earth a mortal foe To war the stars forsake us. But man can take in new revelation Every morning from the mount, And every night, when all the stars are set, He bears in his heart the stars aloft. There's a stately word of God for every lot A man may share or bear, And some who feed on words awake to find The blessing they have missed. As men there are who would not invent a star To praise their favor, So let him say who will, 'tis grand to me To know the way to God. And some who walk the ways of sin, their eyes Turned from the heaven of God, In sorrow's or crime's despite, have found a way Through darkness to the day. They, too, have found a star to lean upon For strength and light; And I, whose tale is not yet done, shall go To meet my Maker's gaze. We look beyond this little world of ours With fear and wonder, But let us but entwine our souls to trust In the great paths that love has trod, Then will our lives seem large and fair, And life seem worth the taking. If you would know the great mysteries That wait for man to unfold, Go to the cities of your neighbor land, But keep your eyes on heaven above, From that great orb that gives you rest. All is vanity and dream, All the earth-wearied wisdom of man, But our souls are angels, singing, waiting, With our hearts fixed on the sun. We are blind, we are veiled, And we cannot see the mystery, We are watched and controlled, We are bowed down, we are bowed, With our sins and troubles. We are fools, if we would see, We are fools if we would see. We are fools if we would be wise, We are deluded if we would be wise. We are healed if we will trust, We are healed if we will trust. We are healed if we will wait On the hand that counsels and forgives. We are broken if we will break, We are broken if we will break. We are broken if we will trust, We are broken if we will trust. <|endoftext|> If, young as he was, I loved To run the race before the fire. I loved the birds, the rivers, And simple flowers, and grasses, The stars and trees and animals. I never thought of the need To bid good-bye to meet, And just as an infant, too, I never thought to "play," Or to be impatient, or to Contemplate the meaning Of life from farther than its need. We were a group of children, Ten in all, a little company, We used to meet from day to day, And we used to play together. The trees were in the garden, and Over the trees the parlor; And we would laugh and shout and shout, And our laughter echoed. It was in one of these outings, I can't remember now which, That I was caught in a dashing stream That rushed through the narrow streets. And I was caught in it, this little boy, For I jumped in with both feet. As I jumped in I was all dressed; And I was wearing little boy's clothes, And I had a little cap on, And I had a little book in my hand, And a little baby-drawing, And a little sing-song, And I had on my little flannel shirt, And I had on my little leggings Which were little boy's trousers, And I had on my little wistful smile. And I was washed and warmed, and drest, And warmed and drest again. And I was sitting on a bench in the park, The bench was in the grass, And I was sitting on the bench in the park When a voice I knew well said, "The garden hose are hot, The garden hose are lukewarm!" "The cat is in the kitchen, And the little dog is loose; And the little cat is small and white; And the little dog is grey." "O, bring the little cat home; And then the little cat will drink." "The kettle's on the fire, The kettle's on the fire, And I hear the little spout go round. The kettle's on the fire, The kettle's on the fire; And I hear the little spout go round." A crow flew over the trees, And over the hill; Then the little boys ran out to read, But I stayed where I was, For I heard a little bird singing there That sang not how, But sang what the morning meant. The wind blew out the candles; And in the chamber, Susan said, "It is just as my mother meant, And he meant just as me." And he smiled, and he kissed her Where they kissed before. And all the morning long That little bird flew round As if he said each word again, As if he knew The reason of everything; And little birds are brave. A robin walked through the blue; He crossed the red and the green; The leaves that were yellow He swept away; The leaves that were black and brown He cleared away; The trees that were beautiful He bared to see. A country life! No, sir; A brook and a tree, A field and a tree, A cow and a horse, A mill and a child. And if he sits and talks His brains will boil. For all his days he sings And all his nights he calms. He goes to water, and he goes to land; A country life is he; His mill is at the low, His grain at the high, His corn at the morn, His beef at the noon, His wine at the night. And now he waits for the spring, To reap and to write; For all his days he sings And all his nights he calms. For all his days he sings, And all his nights he calms. A young strolling minstrel free of fear, But by a youthful hand imprisoned, Hath set his innocently-played string, From whose sweet-throated melodies All human woe, all earthly rage Cannot sweep away the golden lyre. His trusty bard to sickness pressed, A bird in the net he was ensnaided, And the Queen of Love by treachery wooed, And locked him in a prison cell, Where love hath no right, but sorrow has, And grief hath no right, but fear has. But freedom to all is given who taste The delights that flow from the fountain Love; The jails shall fly to, and at last shall win Their way to the sun and the sky above; And the wicked shall be for ever freed, But the good shall abide as they are. Let us then, my Lady, my dear, With a sweet heart and a merry jest, Behold our Bobbie in his freedom once again, And this last folly past, This prison's 'lorn abode.' Come, since we are free, Let us start with a laugh And a shout for Bobbie in his freedom once again. Then the cheek of the maiden grew pale, Her lovely eyes half-closed, But she answered not, for her smile To the smile of the laddie didn't spring; But her heart did feel twinges of sadness When she heard his reason; For he ne'er could be tempted from virtue's ways By the lure of a lady's kiss. As he kissed the mouth he longed to kiss That was smiling as ever, And the Lady looked down from her throne, <|endoftext|> Poor, fanciful, noncommittal, Fain of all but his one desire; Not a wish in his heart or in his eye But the highest in him prompted him. The boy's desire was for a noble bride, Who, like the Amazon or the Maiden of Gwathier, Should follow him as he led the forest on, Till the world was made his interlude, And the paths of the tree trunks were his highway, And the river of Life was his airy vessel. The boy's fair ideal did not endure,-- He died young and unprepared for man's exploit; But it served to put on the background of fame Of a history of his own life the passion, Which (as he said to himself) will make me A lovely and true figure in the community, When it comes to my lot to be remembered. 'T is not the end of the story yet, And I see the end near at hand; For I see the day will come, Some time before the years have run, When the deep furrows of the valley In the bottom of my eyes, Will be washed out with a rain of tears; And the dreams of my boyhood will bloom Like the little scented stars. And the roses of my boyhood, Like the buds of the May-time, Will open to the sunshine of you, As the buds of the ferns do now; And the pictures of home Will come back like a dream from a stream; For life will be an interlacing Of the love that is in my heart And the wonder that is in your heart. All the love in my heart Will be like a melody, Which you will be singing to me; And the prayer that is in my heart Will have the quality of truth, That is, of tenderness and simplicity. You will say: "Did I not live A very unusual life? Did not my words and my ways Revel everywhere in my sight? Yes, but it was as if some mist Had settled on the land; For I never had a thought But was held in the arms of Love." All the wonder in your heart Will be like the crystalline, Which, unto the seething ocean, Fights with rough ocean to be free, And the will to resist as vain. "And so it was; But you there! You did not love me less than I; And my heart--it was a wonder, too, How Love could ever have found in you A fairer woman to love her." When the love of my heart, That is, my heart and your heart, Confront and take counsel of sense, I will take counsel of fear, Lest my heart, with the natural love That is all too human, Lead you into danger, Which you would not incur if you saw In the unknown depths of Love's dominions A monster with a creaking jaw, Whose helpless limbs, the rush of a wave Would ripple and scarcely reach. But to-day your lips say what my heart Would say in the places it dooms not To be gazed at by no other eye Than the curious and prying eye Of the gossip in the dark street. And so I give you love's tribute, Love, which is love's mean meanest word. It seems as if my life, Born under a summer sky, Were a flower born, full-blown, After the long, long days, When the boy goes out to fare With the maiden away. Love is like that, and like that, And like any other flower It blooms and passes by. For the sun will come and go, And the boy will come in the night, And the maiden will go home And return to the boy's door, And the same sun will lift both their faces And the same moon will turn their shadows. Love is like any other flower, And like any other flower It fades and fades and fades. In my heart I have a waiting And a longing for my mouth, And a thousand more such places In the boy that is always coming And going, always coming and going In his own shape, with his own face, And his own soul, and his own light. I know that I shall have to wait Till the night of the wild eternity For the touch of the soul of him, And the voice of the voice behind, And the word from the mouth to follow. Yet I know that the eternity Will bear him with it on its breast And will bear me with him along And will hide me with his arms. I am glad that I was born, And gladder still that I die; For though my life be but a song And though my death be but a dream, I shall know, at the last great hour, That I lived and loved and was dear. The sun shines hot upon the sea, And dross upon the sand; The wind is hot upon the hill, And dust upon the star; The hungry night-winds shake the trees, And moan and murmur through the land, And silence falls upon the sea, And silence falls upon the shore, And silence falls upon the hills; And still the sea is only one That drifts upon the changing tides, That drifts across the trembling sea, That drifts across the trembling sea; And still the sea is only one That drifts upon the changing tides, That drifts across the trembling sea, That drifts across the trembling sea. The hour of rest draws near: O, now I feel the languor of the mind, <|endoftext|> Those three-hitched shadows, Windblown from the water, Sleek-legged and clean, Tapered like a saw, Rolled out upon the blue, Three of us, all, all, One big shadow. A pirate's sloop, a sloop I took As my first step on the high sea; As my next, I bought a guinea ship, And so it happened, two Went down with cuts and bruises, And I had to buy a third. Well, then I married her, And paid her debts, And kept up the life We're living now; I own a store, I run a post, I sell balls And watch parts, and jade, All the things they sell, And bits I buy And candy, my sweet, From the sacks that stagger by. My sons were weak and boyish, I carried them on my knees, I nursed them all through winter, And all through summer, And paid for lessons, lessons, lessons, And shoes, and sheets, and brooms, And sent them people to dress them, And bought them slippers for winter, And everything for eating, I paid for dining-room, dining-room, I paid for all around it, I paid for all about it. They shaved their legs, and their arms, And polished their teeth; I kept the store, I kept the store, I bought and sold it, I kept the store. They studied, and they became The people of today, I ran the store, I ran the store, I ran the store. I paid my taxes, and bought My timbers new, I kept the store, I kept the store, And paid for all around it, And paid for all about it, And kept the store. I hired men to help me, I paid for all about it, And paid for all about it, And kept the store; I paid for lessons, lessons, And shoes, and sheets, and brooms, And sent them away. I warned them not to meddle With matters beneath my watchful eye; I paid my teachers and clerks, I kept the store; I paid for lessons, lessons, And shoes, and sheets, and brooms, And sent them away. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I paid my doctors and surgeons, I kept the store; I paid my teachers, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I paid my clergymen, I kept the store; I paid my doctors, and thank God They're more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I paid my Judges, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it; I paid my teachers, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I kept the store; I paid my Judges, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I kept the store; I paid my Judges, and thank God I've more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it; And paid my teachers, and thank God They're more than paid for all about it, And paid for all about it. I warned them not to meddle In matters of the great about me, I kept the store; I paid my Councilmen, And thank God, more than paid for all, And paid for all about it; And paid my President, and Thank God, he's more than paid for all, And paid for all about it. There are ten thousand pardons to grant, If Joseph could get one; He pray'd with the Prophet, "Send one but the twenty million, And I won't ask for wages." They ran to the Capitol dome, They saw Joseph on his knees, Where, leaning on a twenty million, He wouldn't lift a hand; But Joseph, with his petition, Says, "I'm not a sinner, I'm just a twenty- second-degree In barns and byways they stray; In country and town There aren't a thousand such; And the one that comes at charge, A hundred thousand strong, He becomes their master, For a hundred years or more, And they think no of it As they are willing to die For a hundred dollars a day, And Joseph, if he could only Make them twenty dollars a day They don't see it at first; But when things begin to stir, And they start to live, They don't see it at all, Though it seems to them so Forthright and matter-of-fact; It isn't till the throat Get worse cold and chill, And there comes the light at last Of their rough, grimy lot, And then they realize, It isn't worth while to cry; They're looking for trouble, For the hard days to come; It's better if they're not bred; There's another, smoother crop, There's another way, <|endoftext|> He bless'd him with a rapturous smile, As if he seem'd to touch the saint. And yet to Ebora's shores, Far, far away, Far, far away From all he knew before, From all he longed for and sought, Was a radiant light to him; Bright was that light, With a joyous glory Not yet human understood. And with a keen and eager gaze He fix'd on it, till with joy He felt that it was God's own light, His first experience of divinity. He journey'd on, adown the path Long and level, till he reach'd the end Of its fair pathway, where an Ark Of no mean size was in a valley Inaccessible, and on the lid Were letters strange and fair, Invisible to mortal eye, Which none but those to whom the Book Was read could ever read. And in that home of Ebora Of high-blown clouds and sunny air, The thankful refugee found A certain spot, a grave, Where Ebora, gazing east, Gazed on the Hebrew archives, And mused, and utter'd a soft prayer Over the mighty records. Thenceforth his life was turned To studying the Hebrew tongue, And writing down the wisdom of men, Which he perceived was profuse In that accursed time of sin, When the world was wholly vain. The fame of his vast brain Spread through the world, and now Henceforth his life is devoted To the service of the poor, Who in his power he finds, And with his clear, distinct pencil Guides them in the way of truth, And sanctifies their lives. If there be one who needs must know The depth of Arno's tide, Who would not be the better knowing, For gaining that information, I would be that man. This is my Arno's Tide, So vast that none can fathom Its mysteries, and so fine That even in passing by A stick is in its sense, So grand it rises in thought Above the sight and doubtful And yet so close beside Like countless towers of snow, When all at once they perish, So goes this thought along, That none can number the days That have been the days of Its existence. It shines in the middle space, And is alone eternal, It changes, but its mystery Is constant and the same, Yet still occult and subtle That it has an end to give, Yet still unknowable, It ranges along the space, Yet is constant to all, But the thoughts that ascend Through its fantastic ranges Have no room to live. All is transfigured, all is changed As a dream at waking is. The sun and the moon have gone To the home of the departed, The rain has begun to fall, And there falls a silent dew, And there falls a sweet and golden dew On the tomb of the dead year. And the winds have begun to rise, And the husht wind blows from the shore, And the timbrel thrills and the plash Of the surges moves to and fro, And the smoke of the Eastern Rise Makes the silence of the sea Frown in laughter at the shore. The dead year laughs in her shroud, And to and fro and away, And is gone through the dead sea, And her laugh is the sound Of a wind in a tree Whose laugh is the sound Of a wind on the sea Who laughs in her shroud. And you and I and the winds all Have gone down to the wane, And the wind on the ship and the wind on the shore Is still as the laughter of a thoughtless child, And the waves are so soft to feel, And the stars are so bright to look on. The years go by and go by, And the laughter dies and dies, And the sound of the timbrel thrills and the plash Of the surges moves to and fro, And the smoke of the Eastern Rise Makes the silence of the sea Frown in laughter at the shore. So the sea changes and goes on, And all things pass and pass, And there comes an end of the sea As there is an end of the thought That all things have been. So the sea changes and goes on, But the sea's end still stands, As all things have their end That have been from of old. Then all things change and change again, And we sit and watch the ocean floor And the vast plain of water where stand The wrecks of the ships, the dead things The ships shall not fight again. So we watch them moving on the plains Where the great ships lie that we know, We watch the ships as they move on the plain, And we watch the sea that goes by, And we wonder, and we sigh, and we pray That they too shall not go. And the winds go by and so go by And the winds go by and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, And the winds go by and so on and so on, <|endoftext|> Whispering Through my soul That song is sweet as the low-fed sheep’s Chirping On the road to the fold I hear it in the reeds by the river And in the thorns where the grass is low And it murmurs through my heart to a children’s song I have a little song To cradle a child Whispering that song In a child’s words As they read aloud And the child lies awake in the dark Dreaming Of the song they have heard Where the song was lullaby Until morning comes And the heart beats no more And the child sleeps through the song Forgetful of the song <|endoftext|> "In November", by John Clare [Nature, Fall] In the green and great Autumn of your face, Wearily it sat And watched the wandering Of the sunbeams as they poured Through the old leafless trees And climbed the high boughs And paled in the fading air And all at once there fell A silence on the world A hushing of the throng: No laughter, no talking, No cries of triumph Nor any living thing To break the hush So sweet and so vast That even my spirit Was drawn to it And seemed to forget All its proud exultation And its mad desire To be loved by you It seemed to forget Its own faint humming And the giddy pleasure It had of being happy And fled into the trees Where it sat dim-eyed and bowed In a deep listening mood But when at last the night Fell on the tired world And tired trees and tired earth It arose from its dreaming And through the silence There fell a wind So calm and so deep It made no sound at all And in its moving It seemed to be The heart of the fallen year The year that was broken And the unanswering soul Of the tired earth That year had died into the air As a bird leaves its wings So that at last there rose Only one sound in that mighty hush The sound of one tree falling It fell On the lonely grave of Autumn On a man whose name was buried there But whose soul was with him in the woods And could not die So it fell on his grave And no one could say if it were A soul that listened or a tree That merely sighed. <|endoftext|> "One and the Same", by C. P. Cavafy [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Love, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Men & Women, Anniversary, Engagement, Valentine's Day] I thought so much about her, and you So little, it didn't matter which I chose. I knew we would make a good pair, But that was not so important, was it? Her family moved to Buffalo, New York, While I was in school, and wept apart In the Westchester County cemetery There. I liked the idea of her Since I lived so far from here, but yet I had not met her before. My friend Said he would drive up that next Tuesday And take me out for dinner. That was Tuesday. Sunday he came to pick me up, so It was a Thursday when I woke up And had breakfast with him at Jo-Ann's On Broadway, just across the river From where she lived. Thursday night I went to dance at the Ruskin' School For young women. Sunday, after church I went to Sylvester's to get a hat For Mildred. When I came home I found That they had gotten Mildred a dress And I took her out to dinner, that Friday. Saturday she had her baby's death And had a ball. Sunday I drove her down To Saint Thomas's to have her portrait done And a moustache made. I had to stay Later than usual, so by and by I went to Greenfield to see her have My ears pinned and put up on a wall For people to see. I was there till I had to go back to the hospital Where I was bed-ridden for a while. Sunday I had another daughter, Marie, and we went to the church and had A nice lunch. Then we all went out To the island to see the sea-gulls And to get a hat and some flowers. And I gave Marie a little coin To buy her mother a little gift. Monday came and all was new And I was worse than ever, couldn't Get out of bed, couldn't write, couldn't Take out the garbage, even helped My wife in the store, but nothing Really worth while was going on. Tuesday Marie was taken sick in the hospital, And we all went up to make the funeral. Wednesday came and I couldn't write, I couldn't even speak. Thursday I Stopped working, avoided everyone, No meetings, parties, anything. Friday The fever broke and I started to feel Again. Saturday the work started up again And I couldn't eat. Sunday I couldn't Do anything but eat and drink. Monday I couldn't write any more, and <|endoftext|> The ladies went to the dance, But some did not come back. It rained, and then it rained, and then it rained, And sometimes the sky was grey; But still the countenance was gay, And still the walker did not die. The wind it moaned, but not in pain, And the trees it spoke with a sing-song, And the boy did not sin. The next day, more rain! The next, the sky was black! The next, the trees were bare! The next, he heard a shout, And saw a corpse in the sky. The sky it was a reddish blot, And the countenance was o'er. The next day, and the next, The sky grew red again! The next, the sky was cloud! The next, a corpse was found! And next, death came in his steed! And next, life flew in his bird. An hour after, and no change! And then it cleared; and still the sky Grew grey; and still the trees were bare; And still he limped; and still the boy Heard no voice; and felt no pain; And limped on, and limped on, For nine long, weary, hellish years. Eternal hunger! hunger for the life That daily lessening grows for him! A glory growing dim, and o'er him, A darkness of the long ago. The Lord may know how much he miss The life that daily lessening grows. I LEFT thee in the evening with the news I brought; The goddess of my heart had fled with all her care, To lie with Her, in the shade of Cleis and aloe. The moon shone on thine empty silken dress Through the window bars. She must quit me soon, and go To try if Anteros in Olympus be. I could not find thee for the terror and doubt That on me fall. O heart! they do not come with day. THERE was a day, when to the sea and I The dark clouds seemed to close in a circling curtain, And all the night was hushed to one long calm. Oh, the hour was love's, the moment e'en the day! The evening and the moon were past, and now Day was to come in the same calm. Then a breeze From Phoebus' beautiful heart seemed to blow To set the clouds from heaven, and sweep away The night that came so slow to cup my soul, And lighten it with a gush of fresh dew. I heard the voice of a nightingale Singing as she chirped in April, As if she sought to cheer me with her song And bid me glad the approaching day. The darkness, and the silence that fell From stars to earth, or seemed to sweep away, And nightly with a gentle breath to smite The lids and wake the spirit of the skies To music. The night was not more sad; For to her eyes the stars did not seem As precious stones, but wandering shades, As at the dead of night one sees a ghost. The breeze of night and its cooling breath Grew strong and stilly all the livelong day. The moon grew cold to my bending hand, As to a lover's, and the stars grew pale And faded as I loved them best. I WENT through the night with the moon that dies At the goblet's edge; I heard the flow Of the great fountain like a lover's sigh. And I kneeled and prayed; I knew not what I asked, But this I knew: I only loved the hour Of daylight and the moon, and now it came. The fountain shone and spake to me, as it said, "I am thy water, love, and thou art mine." IT is not in the cup that the wine is made, Or in the field that the flower grows, Or in the mine where the gold is heaped, Or by the river where the sea. It is not in the hand that the power is laid Or in the heart that the love is given, But it lies in the eyes that approve or guess, In the mouth that expresses it unsaid. IT is not in the star that the sun is set, Or in the rose that the blossom opens, Or in the soil that the fruitful has sprouted, Or where the tiniest particle is hid. For these jewels are joined with the chord Where the soul resides of the musical string That eternally swings and vibrates, And of which the lips and the tongues speak, Whose music is ever new and old. It is not in the star that the morn is risen Or in the rose of the blossom that blows, Or in the sunny land where the summer dies That the autumn returns; 'Tis in the eyes that the colour comes, And the lips that express it, old and young, As the hyacinth of the zodiac grows old In the breath that is strewn on the sward. It is not in the star that the night goes down On the bosom of heaven serene, Nor where the eternal wind is blown, Nor by the torrent in the mountain's breast Where the sound is borne, That the rose that blossoms in the heart is born, Nor that which is plucked on the bathroom floor. But in the eyes where the love-light is shed, In the bosom whence feeling has its birth, And by sighs are sweetened and depressed, And by lips that are wet with the dew Of the fire of desire, <|endoftext|> When I was heretofore Under the hand of the old Lord God Almighty, mightily I pray. For that I will give them a rest. I send them my prayer for a rest, Which they gladly have received; For of their ship they have slain 'Neath the white-winged ship of peace. So when they will go thence They shall find the sword of Ulysses Yet unsheathed, but sheathed for ever. A Spartan warrior, in his halls A bed, with royal Trojan couches, Was watching and longing for his love. And he thought, "Could I but embrace her, I shall soon lay firm hold upon Troy." So in the midst of festivities He lay under her fair canopy, And in turn he kissed her breast and her soft feet, and his soul became clouded with love. And as when some thirsty man, far off floating on a wintry sea, Hopes to quench his thirst by grasping a hare, Or by clasping aoi, or rock of crystals, Then, as the drink he is holding declines, He loathes it with a bad taste; likewise so Was the mind of this man, whom good fortune treated kindly, drinking much and oft, till his mind was dejected with love. And now, when he had drunk to his heart's content, he said, "O Queen, I have pleased you justly, since you have given me, and yet kept back just gifts for my own dear sake. What you gave me I will, with no hardiment, present to you as a fitting recompense. I will go home and put on those wondrous garments that come out of heaven, when anyone who has put off old false things is with the righteous deeds, in course of being burned in the fire. And now I will tell you that which I will never tell a soul: I never had hope to have another day with her, so true she was to me. Now, I have served you many days, and served very well indeed, when I saw that I was on the right path, and yet my heart, never until to-day has found its peace, nor has had rest, though I have proved itself, as the blind man tested the opportunity of a new eye, or a new tongue, for he is never quite silent with his mirth, and with his jesting voice can hold discourse with the best-laid schemes of the world, so that they never see the fine subtleties which are woven round the same old desires, and which are safe until they are tested in flame. For she has shown me that I was worthy of so much ill so many times, and I saw that she loved me, so very much, and I could not keep back a kiss. And thus I found all those other kisses flattering me, and I was glad at that, and thought indeed that I might now have no fear at all. But lo, the Gods who live in heaven kept back the fate that I wished for. For Laertes spoke first, saying, 'My son, how canst thou hope after such successes to find your own way among the fortunate? For we Achaeans shall never be able to stay our bitterest grudges when you have won the whole of these rich presents. But tell me, and tell me true, what has Ulysses done that he should be so unfairly blamed?' 'I will tell you truly all. Laertes did not forget you and never meant you dishonour. Far from it. For he always loved you as his closest friend, and when he heard news of your exploits, he sent me here with Hortensius to witness them, and to ask what I should do about those friendly groves of golden cedar that the king of the country in question has promised to set you about; and you will do rightly, for you will get them to lift the threatenings off an oath that he has taken, not to come near them and bring them here, till you have given him one clear promise that he will never bring them to you. And he will take you up at once and send him away by another way, while you are in no sort of difficulty or perplexity about these matters, so long as you keep this course. But if you will perform your task well and quickly, he will soon put the matter simply, and not only will he, but he will gladly give you a handsome present for your safe return, for he wants you to be away for some time.' Then the good nurse Euryclea said, 'My dear, this is what I would say. There is an ancient nurse of Ulysses, who has been your nurse since you returned in the house of your master. She is living still, but the mortal who has been your nurse for the last seven years has told the nursewives of Ithaca that your father is dead, and that you are to be nurse of his son Tiresias. They are never to allow any mortal man to sit by your bedside when you lie in bed. And she will go and tell the king himself, who is much pleased when he sees a nurse treating her patient with greater attention and with more affection than is due to him, for he can bare very well to see the suffering of a sick person when it is seen as being due to her own neglect--and when it is quite plain that it is owing to his having sent her away. But it will be better for you if you leave the town, for if the king comes to Ithaca he will do you some very <|endoftext|> Then a rare summons flew in his ears, The Moon was near her nightly course again, He should return the same evening here. He started, as if from a sleep, and stared Round on all sides--at last he turned and went; While, in a wood, a woman came her way, All dusky, and all beautiful and grand. His eye went quickly to her eye and there It found the star of faith, it seemed to be; And he, as one that never did repent, Followed her, as though on her he'd set His foot to find the heavenly life had dawn'd The voice of him that was no day, but night, Of him that never thought of day or night But as an empty void--of a cloud That, like a kite's, holds the sky in leash, The faith of a man-built city, till death-- And he, that never had believed, was proved By this, to the white-robed faith of woman. Her self-conviction like a wandering light Shone on the side that never yet had hoped; "Come," she said, "with me to this alien place, The stream that never murmur had grown sad. The flowers had withered, and the trees were low, The stream was dark, the night she should not stay, But sail with me and look on this strange isle, Underneath the sea, it had not one flower." The hour seemed less than any days on earth; He think'd of all his failures, but chose not To leave the woman on her solitary shore. He trust'd that, where no witnesses were, her word Would suffice him for his lack of faith to prove. She laid her hands upon his head, and caught his eyes, And o'er him in a dream time seemed to pass, When suddenly he felt the Earth shake under, And heard a cry, as of a ship in storm on rocks; And turning, look'd and saw the women weeping sore. They led him from the place, and set him on board, Their hearts were heavy with the solitude, He looked on all they held most precious; The braid that coil'd above the morning brow, The ring, the brooch it wore on ear, the finger That play'd upon it--all were shaken by the wave, And wave by wave adown the watery world went. But, with all his care, he got to land at last, He reach'd a low isle, its cliffs of sand withdrew, The moon was hid, but, o'er the main, a star Stream'd from the western cave; he saw its beams Upon the rocks, the sea, and from the billows, When lo, the dark cliffs reappear'd, the sea grew white, The broadening moon shone clear upon the watery world. He land'd at noon upon a craggy coast, The wind came fetching at his sultry sail, He touch'd, with a dumb amazement, the land that lay So long dissociated from the sea, Where now so long the land had been unknown, It seemed with scorn to scald itself on the brine, And seem to laugh at the poor sailor's pain. He saw the castle on the headland rise, He saw the white mansion, and the lawn, With steps of marble, which recall'd him well Back to the scene of years long vanished by, And he would have enter'd at the leading-town, But that the curst prig of a tyranny, Beset with scandal, gagged the whispering cry, "Them, the innocent!" and the like; so scathe it came to pass, That he entered not, but turn'd his prow To the wild woods, and the wide sea's domain, And back to the thrice-conquer'd holy wars. I must not hold thee to the tale I tell, Which is too strange, if true, and I confess That I cannot be sure where to place thee, If indeed the tale I hear is true; But hear me, here, to thee a vagabond, That am well ware of strange sights and new tales, Since in Graemenden I have been at home, The Isle of Bream, that is not understood By th' English, but by Northfolk only, And doth not know the road from Humber Norwich. This sea, when first our lord the Normans came, Was not a ocean, but a mere lake; A valley then David ruled, the vale Of Alm near to Bethlehem-Peace is dry; But when the crusaders built a tower On Bead-rhyme, it cast to sea the vale And thence the hill o'erspread, and at one leap Scatters across the waves a hundred miles, So David's grandson trampled Rome, Till Charlemagne the pagan bent the back And drove the infidel from Britain back, With all the trappings of his monarchy. But first the last of Britons rose again, A goodly king, but a bad ass, That drank with such a glee, the kingdom sank, His laugh was 'Ave Maria,' his leer Was 'Sis Pianosa,' and his sword was 'Tanum.' His son, alas, was called Caldwell, from his name The nighest river is called Caldwell's Well; His daughter Catherine was a. coy girl, Who read with a flaming torch the bible, And showed the passions of the women of old By faint tints in their cheeks, as she struck 'em. Ah! hapless daughters, and bewitching wits, <|endoftext|> the green pear the kiwis, those sweet, shining things. they love the way the falling rain kisses the screen door, the way a hummingbird dips its wing in the cup of the sugar doll to taste its soul. the pearl holder on the dresser is wrapped in a sheet. what can I do with this white bead? the sun looks up and then is drowned in a pile of new moon. I can't tell if it’s more beautiful that she is waiting in the forest or that she’s left the city all together. <|endoftext|> "Vincent Charles", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Living, Death, Growing Old, The Body, Nature, Animals, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] Our path crosses his walking far ahead of us, but we see him soon enough to know what we’re getting into. We take the paved path, dim in moonlight, but his shoes gleam in the late September beams and warm air sifts in as we pass. The country here is small, with white houses spanning acres wide. Children run across roads in their white shoes to meet us. His shirt sags open at the neck, and we see the face we never get to see. I press my cheek to the leather of his arm to feel his breath, his salt and pepper hair, and his pale skin like a canvas sunning in the wind. We step into the field where the tall corn sways in the morning light. The air is sweet and humid, like walking in a dream, and we take slow, deep breaths of it. We hold hands, and he lets me touch the medallion dangling at his side, the only thing I have seen that can complete me. The medallion trembles to life in my hands. I know it by heart, and I can feel the difference now, the difference between what I know and what I want. <|endoftext|> "After the Funeral", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Love, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Funerals] I Tears line the arch of her eyes, rain tears in her brown hair. Grief like this finds language. Memories line the porch like cats trying to remember their way home. Her mouth hangs loose with joy. And joy like this goes away. A tiny leaf drifts through the air, and vanishes. A sob snaps a heart into two. But this goes away too. II Tears cover her face. Rain tugs at her gray gown. It is almost morning. After so many years, she has no idea where she is. A field of thistles curls around a silver balloon. III She is wide awake now, waking like a housecat. Sweat clings to her legs like an old tuxedo. The smell of cologne drenches the room. She tries to move, but she cannot move and the steps of movement are barred. It is as if she were immersed in a deep river and suddenly the water turned black and rust-colored. And the sun went out. <|endoftext|> "Meditation in Prison", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Prison & Criminal Justice, Social Commentaries, Crime & Punishment] In solitude, I sit, I try to think. I thought I was right, I thought I was right. The iron cell moves in the mind. I know it will break me, but I sit, I think, I think. And the rust-colored water turns to a brown river, I know it will break me. I will not cry. I will not cry. <|endoftext|> "Childhood Stories", by Diane Gilliam Fisher [Living, Growing Old, Time & Brevity, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Philosophy, Social Commentaries, Cities & Urban Life] I I was a child once when the world was still, when there were no men, and a dead calf ate sun. I remember the smooth jaw of the cow with the open nostril, the sound of its hoofbeats. I remember it well, I am thinking of it now, years after its death. I am thinking of the way it put its enormous weight on a two-by-four, and then by concentrating, I pushed it, almost too far, upside down in the snow. I am thinking of my hands on the handles, the smell of the frozen midnight ice, the cold, I am thinking of my hands in wonder. II Once I had a dream in the cellars of the future, where all the stalagmites, and all the tanks, and all the wells were alive. And I stood alone in a great hall. No men were in it, and I could see the glitter of their shoes on the polished floor. And I knew that they were playing a game of chess, but I could not see the game. <|endoftext|> Of Ægyptus, who the journey took To Zacynthus, and thence by stealth to Troy. From him I, next, to Phylacus am led, For every labours he had allured the youth To undertake in foreign realms of heat, So he might gather wealth and wisdom to bestow At home. The boy, overcome with toils, his course Had to another harbour chose; and next, Thee, shepherd of the flocks, Ægyptus' son The island came, that with the mountain chain Divides the river-streams of Aganippe, And pined Lesbos, from which Naxos derives That name. There dwells the mountain-lion strange Ægyptus, who in all the other lands To hardship had turned out his foot-paths of gain, But here he chose his seat, nor other cause Than that the place was fair and gentle there For steady-hearted men to love and enjoy. And there he dwelt, a man who plied his trade In virtuous living, and fair wife-sowing. But I no longer miss the dwelling-place Of that Ægyptus, so went my steps Down to the beach of the dark-pink sea, Where lay the harbour,--now say, would I But know by what belief the well-loved isle Was named of old; for verily I know It once was so, and still is named of old By many men, and I myself have heard The name pronounced, as men utter vow Of holiness, such holy men do name The isle. And there, in shade of pine-woods dark, My very child-love lingers, by my soul A temple of health. But I would tell, ere long, How all these things be, seeing that I know What human hearts are, how sad their wandering, How restless in their hearts' secret recesses, Though, like the bird's, their utterance seems to be Of nought but gladness. O, pray enable My words to reach the ears of him alone My heart loves, since he has made my very life Irrevocable, by that only will He has unquenchable, which, through life and death, He is so very ready to unfold, And, through his art, to open or conceal. For this will I sit down ere long to tell, How many sweet and wholesome laws which still Banish care and sorrow, have been wrought In Crete by the sagacious Pallas there. But now the Sire himself, who of all men Gave laws to mortals, being now within, And inly feared for his own, the Nymphs Love to attend him. Yea, and it is well That ye be here! Ye twain have here together More than ye could in any other place have found, Now that the land hath felt the days of peace And plenty; for all Crete is, as I trust, Clear out of the clods, and sweetness itself Is riper for returning to her soil. But come, for first it is thy feast-day, Queen! Dine with us, and be merry with us, And let thy counsel be more ample, That we, returning to our country, may see More of thy kindness; for, sure, none can see All the good deeds which she hath wrought for men Through the long years, nor hath she spoken yet Of her bounty in a singular Or exceptional aye or single term, But all her deeds are eternally Bemoaned and praised through many generations. For she hath given to all men steadily Their daily portion, her portion of good, And hath not forced the poor with many tokens, But hath instead, with unflagging hand, The precepts of her own free will poured Into their hearts. And therefore we will play Bacchus too, which is a revelation Of the spring-time of the year, with distichs Of volume manifold of gladness, With sweet avocations; that thy ears May drink such constant intermission As whelms the bulls at mirth, when once they start From milking, and the fruitful flocks laugh Among the hills. Then shall thy children, I Know not when, again resume their pasture, And soon as draws the pleasant season to The fall, thou shalt begin to hear a sound Of hurrying hoofs on the thick-set corn, The tasselled rye and the swarth-grained stubble, Which clearly proves the fall of summer. Then shall we on the first day of autumn With blazing lamps from dawn to eve revel In revelry glad, and at the last, Victorious, spread a carpet of shade For the monarch honey-combed seed-crowned, Who now, with hands ever sanctified, From sacred sheaves turns gaunt and dishevelled Stripes of ruddy harvest, and sloughs off the cloth. But thou, O Queen, the winters share, and be Gentle as Spring, and let us thither bring Wakeless of slumber, that we may wake him up, And welcome him, the offspring of thy Son, Lord of all things. Now through my heart all my lines ring true, For aye I find I have been true to my vow, Yet not as false as I should be who basely yield To ingratitude the good things that are. But, O Queen, I pray thee do for me still good And true things, for he who ingrates doeth well Makes not the Father's name sacred, and the Son's <|endoftext|> An' lea'e me on the ground, An' heave me out o' sight. An' heave 'er up o' it; an' put the gear In an' stow the ribbins bright; An' let me grate an' dry an' limmar, To lim' aroun' the deil. Till then, in peace, I 'll stay, An' hope for to get By to Moyle-bawnnock abune Or h'omanhood in Glengoyne To gallop round a crown Is no for a gleesome love; To joll it on the gilly Is only fit for a glutton. But to stay on the straight an' true, An' never thought o' harm, To gallop round a crown Is honour indeed. To gallop on the straight and true Is honour indeed. An' when the gallop has got commix An' the time come for to tak' leave, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. An' when the gallop has got comix, An' the time got comin' to take leave, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. An' when the time it come to to tak' leave From galloping round a crown, From goin' on an' get'in' back, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. An' when the time 's come to to tak leave, An' to go from galloping round a crown, From goin' on an' get'in' back, A word on the strappin' will git' him To gallop on again. They say to stand at the post Is the plan o' the soldier. I never liked to go, But I never could find out How to get off the post. I couldn't understand it, If I couldn't understand it, From the sound of it. There isn't no plan in the world To land a man on the strappin' An' to land him on his feet. There isn't no plan in the world To get to shore alive When the water come at you bad, When the water come at you bad, An' to go from shore again. I had goose bumps all over, When I landed on the strappin' My feet was so dry as the drippin' On the landing I popped my coggs I popped my coggs to get on the post I couldn't get off the post. I was jumpy, I was deaf, I couldn't figure a thing Out o' gettin' on the post. I'd ask the Chaplain, but he'd say, "I can't tell you how to get off, I can only tell you how to get on." An' so I stuck as I was, But I always made sure, On the first day, I'd know it, I'd done my quick time. I stood by the post a while, An' I said to myself, "I'll only stay a minute, I'll go an' get a pint." I drank it all up, I drank it all up, I wanted to go back again, But I figured I'd better stay A minute longer, An' I figured I'd better stay A minute longer, To lick the taste off the glass. Then I stood by the post again, An' I said to myself, "I'll only go and get a kiss." I kissed a few chaps along, But the rest I couldn't get by, 'Cause my lips was too dry. I licked them guys, an' I licked 'em good, I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post. It wasn't no use to lick the post, 'Cause I was too hot, An' I couldn't stand the way that the water Was steaming, an' the feel of it on my skin. I licked the chaplain, an' I licked 'em too, I licked 'em too, an' I licked the chaplain. I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post, An' I tried to get through the line, But the post tasted like sand, an' the chaplain Seemed all confused an' sleepy-headed. I licked 'em good, an' I licked the chaplain, I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post. I licked 'em good, an' I licked the chaplain, I licked 'em good, an' I licked the post. I licked the chaplain good, an' I licked the post, But I couldn't get through the line. I walked along the post, An' I stood by the chaplain, An' I said to myself, "I wonder if he'll understand." I wonder if he understood, I wonder if he understood, But I couldn't get through the post. I stood by the post again, An' I stood by the chaplain, An' I said to myself, "He'll understand when I'm done." I did it, now, an' I did it, An' I did it again. But I couldn't get through the line. <|endoftext|> They say, that in a secluded place, Some withered hand reach'd out for mine; As if to clutch me by the sleeve, And after whisper'd, "Behold thy son!" He knew, indeed; and thus he said: "O sovran One, who anointedst me sire And bade the mother stand before thee here, With brother and with sister thy priests I acknowledge; and they will pray for thee, Who at the world's opening stood'st in thy light, And to the bridegroom advance their prayers. Go with thy son, and as thou wilt ordain, Through worlds of being, thy sovran ordinance, That in each heart some spark of purest fire Might serve to guide the footsteps of the dead. If these arrangements be withheld long, From those thou seest thy life shall pass away; And they, perhaps, shall never know the ways Where thou wert instrumental in their salvation." "Thy whole life at onegiving join'd these two To earth, and in their arms to earth they went. And their pure hands with life-blood were emblaz'd, Which, not yet corrupted by the lewdrop's fall, Made pathos of the mortality of men. So blest, so blest was I, a sovran guest, That still unto my life my love return'd. And they, their progeny, ere yet to age Was distant, were, through close cohort seeing My sovran guest, one family, one house. For me the law of hospitality By ancient example with them so often Testimony had infus'd, that I myself Was part of that stock, as they from one root Drawn by the fates, as unto their harvest positive. Now, brother, I must tarry no longer here In vision deep of this apparition; Since that of whose sovran goodwill I saw My spirit made pure, I am order'd so To tarry no more with corporeal clay. Hence, with high promise sent ahead to stand Apart, I proceed to subdue my mind To what it is that divine has shap'd me to be. I mouritely wish you joy and exultation, Which the grave to you seems inaccessible; That you may be rejoice with me at this moment, And may with me embrace the immortal powers, Which I to know aspire, though I know them not. For my mind hath caught the vision clear and pure Of those celestial forms, which, crying, blaze On all the depths of ether breaths of the air; Which never of themselves the primal germs Contain, but ever exist by miracle; As the vast galaxy, or as this creation, The very word to stand without corporeal aid, Vie with the vision, which from heart and brain Of man, or angel, like an awful voice Puts the highest, calls the peculiar one Aware upon man to view, a fit mission. Yes, I do know, and understand your griefs and fears, Which you bemoan, with such submission wear; For such deceits I do not suffer still; As yet I am by nature free from woe; Nor should I wish to be so, or should feel That I should wish it, since you are my brethren. My father, you are bound to me by nature, Since of you I am derivate and sister; And that by birth I have some claim in you, The same appears evident, why I speak The same, and lay it as my guarantee this. You are my brethren, but we are not one, We are from another mother begotten; Yet in one blood we are conveyed and born, Though with different fathers; this I know well, And it is but as men that we have share In one natural body, whence the different names We have were born with: but in my song I seek No other fruit of it, than to sing your praise. My brother, and my other parent, God, Hath spread the world through every continent, And hath His foundation in each land. Each man's affection must have its seat In the great love, which is the end of all: If the desire of each exceeds the sense, Each in its kind has kindled; and this above, In reverence to that love which is God's, Has caused us to establish this allegiance To our most sovereign, who hath made of earth His heritage, and all things of it created: Where He does love, who can condemn or force To love anything else but what he loves? This was my error; and, for it, I die. But through it all, I've kept my will in love, As I understood that great law of God. For this it is that I was sent to preach The gospel, that men might be saved, and swerve From the way of sin and death, and God be glorified; And have, by my ministry, in many lands Called men to come to Christ; and in this church I have been the instrument through which God's gift Of revival has gone down, and yet will go on; But, while I go on, by good and evil report, I've brought my precious Lord to do my minister's will; And, in my sufferings, have not squander'd my all, But have been true to Him who gives me health and youth. But now I am a marked man; I cannot go With out marching day and night before my doom; And, with God's grace, I'll do my best to fit my pen For some new vocation; though 'tis a poor show, To make men holy and ready to believe; <|endoftext|> What to me were a prairie fire Or far mountainous ranges, if you had Before me here a prairie spread, Uncontemned, and the fire Not confined to a wire. I would not change that. If I had, I should not regret it. For I would have Before me here A fire uncontaminated By a little smoke, And that is all. And I say to myself, from this distance, That I would much rather see A red-tailed hawk Pass overhead, Than a volcano made of fire. The shepherd lingers by his cool stream Until the sun is in the sky, When, without thought of his home, Homeward he hurries. What is so glad About the shining of the day, But to think, when it is done, I must go back again? If I have ever been sad, It is that I have forgot The words of one who was more wise than I; And now I say of one Who never did betray me: "Lo, this is the worst of all the baleful things That a woman can bring with her That makes a man forget his home." If I have ever been glad, It is that I have forgotten The words of one who was more glad than I; And now I say of one Who never did turn away: "Lo, this is the worst of all the baleful things That a woman can bring with her That makes a man forget his home." You tell me, little lips, How the dew comes down So lightly On the blossom Of the morning. And how the dew looks up So longingly As the gnats come down On the shadow Of the hill. You tell me, little lips, How you love the rain, And the cold, cold wind, And the wild blue smoke That comes from the hills, And how you want the hills To be alive With the little sounds Of the rain. You tell me, little lips, How you love to lie On the cool wet grass And watch the skies go by, And the river, Going to sea, With a whisper in your ear Of "Nevermore!" There are dreams that come to one per night, (Each dreams a different dream), There are thoughts that come to one per day, (Each thoughts a different thought), There are songs that come to one per week, (Each songs a different song), There are tales that come to one per year, (Each tales a different tale), There are memories that come to one Thro' a lingering of the weeks, There are joys that come to one per day, (Each joy a different joy), There are larks that sing to one per night, (Each larks a different lark), There are tears that fall to all men once a month, (Each tears a different tear), There are death, and taxes, and pinched wages, And one who has a wart upon his toe, (A wart that stinks), There are dreams that come to one per night, (Each dream a different dream), There are thoughts that come to one per day, (Each thoughts a different thought), There are songs that come to all men once a month, (Each songs a different song), There are memories that come to all men once a month, (Each songs a different song), There are tears that fall to all men once a month, (Each tears a different tear), There are death, and taxes, and pinched wages, And one who has a wart upon his toe, (A wart that stinks). How shall I wake at dawn to-morrow? With the pale hand to twist the cord That dangles in the twilight? With the eyes to count the moths that slip Into the moth-jar, one by one, Then fold the window aside And hear the bee, the wind, the pigeons' trills Calling from the Road? Or, how shall I wake at dawn to-morrow? With the pale hand to twist the cord That dangles in the twilight, With the eyes to count the moths that slip Into the moth-jar? Far, far away I see the Road that runs across the Sun-- A crimson road that thrills with fiery particles, Away across the Sun--a roadway of glory That runs across the Sun, A fiery crimson road of glory That thrills with fiery particles. Through this road of flames I see the cicadas Fade into the sunset haze; The vapors, declining, Fade out of sight; And in wafting waves of golden light The sunset sheds Over my house the call of the Sea-- It is a sweet voice that calls me Home at the dawn of the day; It is the wind that speaks To the sleeping town; With an emphatic 'wake, O wake!' At the beginning of each dawn; The hours of the golden day Wake and sigh and sigh And weep, O sad and sad, For the Day. The pale phantoms of the day Shimmer in the golden light; A melody like mist descending Comes floating out of the cloudless sky Till it fades in the golden rain That runs from the dawn of the day Into the sunset haze; And, far away, Into the golden sunset haze, A familiar ship is riding seaward O'er the beautiful ocean-- O it is the ship that brought you here! It is the ship that brought you o'er the waves! <|endoftext|> Up to a day when all is changed, Saving you, as now, of all. LXXXIX. "There be the Cretans, who, 'tis said, Have set their feet, though remote from us, On Helice's isle, and live at peace With the old sea-god; so, too, the rest Of that still throng are blessed, and steer Their sandy barks across the deep. But some are changed. They who once dwelt Upon the sandy bars of Crete, And saw the sea, now ply the trade Of Sicily. There is Sichaeus, Thenceforth bereft of sense and breath, Whom to the river plain we bore Down the long lane of slaves and wine To his whose words were Life, and Death Now guides us to the Sake-plains all. 'Neath the fierce curse of cruel Circe, Drawn by the swine-herd, he wandered forth A year. But when the grey-hair'd messenger Of o'er-manner'd Fate was seen no more, He swam, and eat the cruel fowl, Or with the beast that pays his fare Tore at the ford before the ship. Then first I heard of Thetis' son. I was the third in line from him, And by my fealty, in aught That could or vouchsafed, I was His man in Crete. But, ere the stream Was fast retreated, his bark went down The sandy deep, and with the flood Pass'd the fatal place. But I escaped, And passed the stony piers and passes, And through the stormy clouds was borne Unto the Grecian ships. Here was I seen By Teucer, as, at the whiles, he plied His sword, with this request in my ear: "O friend! be not dismay'd, but turn to flight, Lest thou to Circe's dwelling go, Where of that rout I spoke am sure." "I dare not," said I, "O citizen, Lest thou should'st wish me lost upon The waters." And with that word he fled. Forthwith I chased him, even as he passed, From the warm wave, far as the land's extent, To tell my tale to him, but he was gone. My comrades bear the brunt of the storm; E'en so, in sooth, did I, but o'er the deep I knew not where my flight should best suffice. So long as to the ships we bide the stream, The war proceeds amain between the crew And Circe's magic band; but when we reach The haven, then, sorrowing, we depart With downcast looks, nor can our hearts restrain Our tears. We to the city speed away And to our home. But when we had reached home, My friends, I knew not how, I could not tear My garments from my limbs; for tears bedew'd My heart, and, despair within me, I supplicate'd To be allow'd to finish my days in ease. When I had mingled in the mournful throng, A aged woman, running to the ground, Accomplish'd in words what never a tongue Could have expressed--a young man cajoled away My clothes, and with them led me to a tomb Upon a forest cliff, that overhung The sea, and from the cavern's mouth viewed The sky and ocean. There my worthy guide Left me, and directed me to a boulder Which at the nearest mole was align'd, and told Where dwelt a herd of sheep, diligent and good, That used to feed on the turf and moss Near the great watch-tower of the city, Where trees their sunny boughs divide the strand; Nay, where a small birch, full ten fingers wide, Pendent in idleness, in shade suspended, Caught the broad beam of the setting sun, And waving wide its adherent leaves, An ancient oak in fashion like that which now Charles and his fathers saw built by him, Whose oaks in wreaths erewhile the sacred town And primitive shrines of Hercules held dear. Thither, force irresistible being found, Loud groan the roots of that old oak, and wide- Embracing boughs the branches close in, And in that copse the flowering beech supplies. There rest a moment mead-sweet, then away Towards the sea, for by the way of ways Loud crashes the squirrel's matted hair, and shrill Peals the quivering of small birch-grove more, And ever, as we onward, mirth is born More resplendent by increase, that evermore Swells into gladness, such as ease desireth. Then, because the time apprently elaps'd, Tears well may flow, when joy is short and brief. Now had we come where, on the level green, The high tower's square pinnacle seem'd rear'd High over all the soil, and far and wide Its viewpoint cover'd; when Virgil thus To me: "To the high rock summon therefore Thy fellowship of singers; and with them Precautions take, and watches keep, and guards Issue forth, to prevent unseemly sight And ill repute to Folly polluting thine." "These prudent orders I would crave From noble earl whom Halthestratius swears Is near, his help to advert to Weeping Lacedaemon, nor to an end His toils one jot short of his fair son's <|endoftext|> Forgot, and even shamefaced and sternly glad In a strange bitter way, with coldly, sullen And scary eyes the lady came; And still, in her retinal glow, She looked as pitiless as death. And something in the world grew grey, And still she smiled as pitiless as death, And still the lady's smile grew cold, And then she tried to touch the lady, And touched her hard, with fingers cold, Yet still the lady's face grew paler, And still her eyes grew calmer; Till at the last her fingers failed, Touched no face in that strange gloaming, Touched no face in the night. And the lady wandered lonely And grew faint with sadness, And she would have died the death of shame, But she felt a hand that held her And all her pain did end, And a voice whispered softly, "She will not die, She will awake to bless you, She will awake to bless you, She will awake to bless you; She will bless you always, And awake to bless you." And still the lady's face grew colder, And still her eyes grew colder, And still she felt the cool hand press her And whisper low, "She will not die, She will awake to bless you, She will awaken to bless you, She will awaken to bless you; She will bless you always, And awake to bless you." And as the lady died She murmured softly, "I have been true, For love is blind as Death, And life is well, but only for a night, God will take you from me, And leave me for the flame, For flame that consumes you and me, A purple shadow thro' the day." "You have no power, my love," the peasant said, "You will not wake her, you dare not speak, How could she know the one who has not seen?" "But I will tell her--but, my love, speak not, But whisper, whisper, whisper!" the lady cried, "Say, 'Here is my hand, here is the hand That never might have failed to save The one who comes to-morrow morning, But now has failed; speak, speak, speak!' For I will never wake again, Never wake again." "But where is he, that he should come to-morrow, To-morrow, when the dawn is red, To-morrow, when the sun is bright? What, do you think, are you dreaming still, In that lost, dark, and dread hour, You never saw the face, you never heard The tones that haunt you, lonely as hell?" "I think," she said, "I think, my love, of the last Time we met, and this last loveliness; I wonder if it may not be true, This whispered, sweet, last romance; O, if it may not be true, That sunset o'er your summer hills shall glow, That dawn shall dawn above your seas." "I wonder if it may not be so, But then I fear, I fear the night That hides the star, and hides the sea, And makes of memory--memory!" And there was silence in the room; And in the room was only the clock, And the sea-gull, sitting still, Watching with half-shut eyes the clock Go sure and swift from the room. "Is it then too late, too late, to love? Are you too old, too old for pain? If so, then go and leave me here, That I may feel the silence, know The silence, the unquiet heaven; For if you love, then life is death, And pain, and sadness, and the sea; If so, go, go, and leave me not; For if you love, there is no pain, No darkness, no sorrow, and no sea. "And if you think, because you have loved Before, and knew before what it is, And you have borne the burthen of the same, You may not love again,--then I say Go hence, and leave me not, I pray, If so it be that you may not bear The old old love and familiar heat; For if you love, though so old and old, The new young kisses of a little child. "But if you think, because you have known And loved, and borne, and now know all, It is too late to die, too late to live, Then go, and leave me here, for I am sick Of this ill-spent life, of one long pain; Of one long, long, weary, frightful hour; Of one long, dread Saturday night; Of one long night that holds my face Like a closed and deadly face; Of one long, fearful, dreadfully dim, When you came from sleep, and seemed to stand Close against my bed, and called me near; And there close beside me you breathed, Like a breath from heaven, and said, 'Hush, hush, sweet Betty, I know, I know, We shall get through this, We shall get through this; And when we have got through this, Then I shall come for you.' "And then you stirred the bed, and you moved, And I moved too, and we two moving moved Till you said 'One, two, three,' and I said 'Five, six, seven,' and you said, 'Now look.' And I said, 'What next, Mr. Ball?' And you said, 'Eight, nine, ten,' and I said, <|endoftext|> Rejoices, joys, and lofty bliss in due proportion. And those shall glory, who, pouring forth a pure soul in prayer, Have shrined in deed her goodly nature, and in word adored. Breathing of that soul-breathing spirit of the Democrat of Nature, whose mystic power The grandeur of his thought has waked, And called forth in subjection from the strife That courses through the revolving spheres, T' avenge the injury, and own the right Of every being to his rightful claim, Whose might is God's might, whose right is his; The day-star of truth, whose torch of glory Lights the wide realms of human race. The world's iniquities have hurled us To the bottomless, and to the tomb Of the Future; in the act of crime We have drowned our free souls, and that deed No future age, or nation, or world, Can cleanse. Thus, to secure the virtue Of the chosen seed, from the rot that dwelt Within the monstrous clay, from the defile Of a degraded past, and from the stain Of a guilty people, on whose heads Divine Louis Napoleon laid the sod That Bruin, and made Sully a citizen, So weak was God's potentace there. And of what race are we, since France With her chill vulture, the Christian God, Punished infidels, and made free men? And of what race are we, since France, Though fettered with the yoke of forty years, Has reared such noble children, whose white Unshorn heads shall leave their future world A better race, than her own of yore? And if some faults should be there made known, And some errors of the human kind Perish in the light of our day, What if our hand were dinged with sin, What if our heart with evil had tinged, What if we were the creatures of one Bad lawyer, who did not and cannot From his cradle flip the dog-teeth, or To the grave flip the Christ, that he might be God's justice for all time; would he then Make out a case for free governments, Or the protection of man, or woman, Or the right of private property, or the laws Of contract? Are we freemen now, or Subjects of subjects? Have we leapt the Chain of the Almighty's alliance, Which we bound to the yoke of the debt, And to the enslaving British lion? And yet we are not in the least enslaved. Some say that no human power is ours, And that no mortal law can restrain The actions of our souls. O! let us Then sweep away the dull, self-indulgent, And inglorious, groups of the past, And go forth to battle, and to victory, That to us and ours the Father's word may come Of promise, and the Lord's command be known. For to the power of self, and the weak world, And the hungry void, come callings and orders, And all forms of necessity, and all Means of encroachment, and all modes Of labour. Where then is the security Of fixed and particular places, and particular Lives? Where is the home of the rich, or the poor, Or slavery and expropriation? Nay, it is not, Father of all, nor the Master, be thy Name God, nor the Witness, nor the Helper, be thy Word Jesus Christ, nor the Saviour, but wherever MEN, And ordinary men, and crowds, and cities, and States, and mankind, to work their deliverance need All means of warfare. And of these are we now The smallest particle. The great earth now constitutes Our habitation; in our blood, and our flesh, and our voices we are mingled. Wherever, then, shall we go, Or where secures us our physical body, and our vital vigour, and our free will? The extreme ends Of physical science tell us we are bound to the earth, Or the rivers, or the plants on the face of the land. But wherefore the depths of the ocean, or the banks of the rivers, Or the depths of the fields, or the banks of the fields, be deemed the seat of our habitation? There are many animals Living on the banks of the rivers, or in the streams of the sea, who appear to have no previous institution Of city life. All places at first were unpopulated; For the animals and plants could not travel hither and thither. But after a while, by the aid of their incantations, And by the cunning skill of artificers, they learned to accompany their motions, and found out how to execute Their journeys in water, and on the plants they grew; by which means cities were originally created. There are wonderful Literatures of Antiquity picturing the earliest ages of mankind, In which these facts, or some very like, are displayed. (1) There are two other versions which render this word "life" by the word "power," but the passage as here illuminated, makes it impossible to determine which word is intended. (2) This refers to the mythical ancient state of man, when three periods are distinguished -- the child, the ox, and the eagle -- each named for the respective power of his birth. The dragon, then, would be the name of the eldest period, and the pillar, and then the stone; the nurse would be the name of the second, and the whale the third. <|endoftext|> Behave at once, or take your life: but if you Will strike him on the cheek, as one striking a Mortal, and no punishment shall follow; he shall go Freely, if his wife be your companion; but if She be your wife, or if you two are found to be Alone, he will slay you, and then he will enter You into Hermit's fellowship.' "Then I departed from the lair, and the dark beasts All slept without their master, and I found my Mother weeping, and my brothers crying, and the Father of my husband; weeping and wailing they Made even the hair of their heads stand on end, And I made much of this, till I sobered, and Woke in the dawn, and saw my brothers still Weeping and mourning; yea, and I knew that it Was my son whom I had lost, and I wept aloud, And my brothers wept, and the Father wept, and The other gods wept, and their full hearts melted With pity, and they said, 'O son, O son, O Raghu’s son, if ye have lost thy son What will you now? how will the nation be blessed? What will the city be raised to royal greatness? How will your father’s dwelling be adorned? Will he be welcome at his doors again? how Will the good Vibhishaṇ be received at home, Whom ye met on the road when the plague Came on you? how will your kindred greet The son who is the Lord of all their goods? O son, O son, whose bed-rid wounds The Bráhmans and the Vánars strewed, How will ye receive him now? how Shall the good Vaśishṭha, thy brother, Be received with homage, when he comes From Daṇḍak forest and the land Of high-souled Kesamsair, and comes With his lords and children to enjoy The banquet and the libation, the share With which his might is laden, the rod That planted Vindhya, and the glory That came with Ráma to the land? How will ye greet him? how will ye greet The hero whose arm in battle slew The leader of the Keśar rebels, And made of Forest-King a shade? How will ye greet him, son whose arm In strength and joyousness was like thine? How will ye greet him, mighty-armed, With armorer’s smeared and bleeding hands, With bow-armed Ashramaṇæ, With valiant Mekshba green and brave, Ashramaṇu, who wields the mace, And Śyenadasa fierce to slay? How will ye greet him, best of men, Thy princely Ráma, whose high name Is increase and hope of all? How will ye greet him who sang so well, With fear and wonder in his eye, The song of the Three Colours under, That charmed the Gods and fled the eye Of Indra’s son? Will ye meet him then, When the light of his coming shines? Will ye receive him with grand reverence, When his feet shall touch the ground, And wreaths of flowers, from the forest sprung, Spring round him and the Son of Raghu? But all in vain he called and sighed, For all in vain they heard and stood Still as trees that idle lie, Or idle trees whose life is brief Whose leaf nor bark has fallen yet. With Sítá on their hearts they stood When the great chieftain came, And round him with low reverence His disciples made the way. Then Ráma cried, for grief he felt Thence of his Rákshas foe: “What will ye, Vánars, will ye do To meet the Son of Raghu? Where will ye speed to meet your lord, Or in what spot assent? What will ye do, O chiefs who shine In wealth and high station high? Where will ye lay your heads, and stay In what their bliss esteems sweet? Will ye obey the summons said By Ráma and Sugríva sent? O, if ye be of manly kind, To him direct your steps, And join Sugríva and me, The chosen three, who grace this throne, And trust them to the camp. They are the friends of Raghu’s son, Their hearts to our interests lean, And will be hither soon to lead Our armies to the fight.” He ceased, his voice with woe aweary Obscured with breathless sobs; And Ráma raised his eyes and gazed Upon his brother thus estranged And sad in heart for grief. At length the prince with heavy sighs The Vánar chieftain eyed, And thus in burning grief reproached The chief of guile and scornful love: “Why wilt thou thus thy sentence pass, And doom thy brother dead, When from his high estate and rank, From wealth and glory free, Ráma has taken you away? Then if he be the prince who holds Our lives and kingdoms, you Forsake the king with him and fly Like birds to Scamárú. No direr sentence, be it found, Can pass the lips of woman; Or, if it be, a death like this The weight of offence had found. Thy deeds and words in time past Have won for thee favour’s glow, <|endoftext|> A soul once wholly thine, With loving eyes that watched, And silent lips that kissed, A heart once wholly thine, May live within my soul, And in my heart may live forever. Oh! come to me in dreams of night, A form as lovely as thine own, A spirit as true as thine own, And say as touching as thine own: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." The ways of men are rough and mad, Their days are blind with doubt and dread; The loves of men are pale and low, And if they claim a name divine It is a name that men despise. The ways of men are blind and hard, And women too in doubt and dread. The dreams of men are faint and fair, And sweet, and rich, and large, And sweet as prayers before they die, As sweet as songs unto prayer. The dreams of men are fair and clear, The sun shines on them through. The way of men is thorny and steep, And hard to those who do not slip; It is a rough and twisted lane That leads to many a lonely shore. The way of men is rough and strange, And oft a sore and twilit path. The dreamer's face grows wan and grey, And thoughts and sighs invade his rest; He hears the cry of women sold, He sees scenes none may share with men. The man awake, like runaway slave, Can only weep and wish for rest. "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." Ah! could I bear it only, Could I only bear its pain, I could not want it half as much. There's a wayfarer come o'er the sea From a fair island in the sea, And his curly head is lost in dread, And his eyes are wet with weeping: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." Hark! the white sails stir and pass, And a great wind blows the sail o'er, And he tumbles on the sand: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." And the white sail sinks to the ground, And the wind dies in the pine-wood; And the wayfarer comes to his home In the land of shadows and dreams: "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." The gray gulls flying to their nest And the sea-weed waving in the sand, The sun on the great wave smiting it And the sullen roar of the tide, Are sweeter sounds to the worn ear Than "For me the old, the old way hath A love yet hotter, truer, And dearer, and more dear than this." The sweetest lullaby that ever yet was sung, In tones that were loved by the angels, Was sung by a little brown chick to his mother As they went flying over the sea. And she held to her side A singing-bird with clipped wings, And they went ho-ho-ho! They flew over the sea, For over land they dared not fly, And down from a cloud, Like little stars about a hole, They came in their whining, And down into the sandy sea, And hooted with the hush-patey hoot Hooted loud gray catbirds, And quacked with the quail. And a mother's love never shall wane, Or change, or dye, Since the child she bore and reared Is at her heart, And ever shall flock the same dear ones With the same in love come back, From the very birth of the May, From the birth of the dawn of the light To the last, last day of life. Since first she heard the green wood rung With a lark on the call I am wearing, Since first she heard it, have I seen her Come through the July sunshine blithe and bold With her cheeks full of blossom; And her hair, Like a scroll of bird song, came down O'er her shoulders bare. For a pensive lover goes To the brink of Acheron, And the tempest in a pouter rides, And the lightnings flash from a stratagem, And a chorus of waters Ring through the aisles of Olympian dells, In the well-remembered maze Of a Spring that has drunk Apollo's blackness. When the summer sun is shining And the yellow-blooming May Lists her choicest flowers to gaze on, Comes the gray goose step to the river, Comes the gray goose step. O my love, you who bridle the spleen, Do you know of the cunning way Of the sly gray goose? When he sneaks to the riverbank, When he sneaks. And he licks the feet Of the red girl with the dabble-brush, And he licks her face. The gray goose comes back again, And the red-billed Dolly lets fall <|endoftext|> the map of pain, and each map a thousand times as old as the earth <|endoftext|> "Permanent Home", by Jane Hirshfield [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine] A man walked into a temple, Looked around, and said, "Where is God? I don't see Him." Then God appeared. He wore A tattered kimono and a beard That trembled when he spoke. "Where is God?" the man asked. "I don't know," said God. "Then tell me where to find Him." God walked through the temple, Over the altar, Under the arch, Up the wooden stairs, To the god of the room Who'd be concealed from others. God looked in the man's eyes And saw the man's doubt. "Tell me your doubts," said God. "Your doubts," said God. God took the man's hands in His, Carefully, and put them on the shrine. "Your doubts," said God, " Are like seeds under God's feet. You must lay them in the earth If you would see God." <|endoftext|> "Oracular", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, Time & Brevity, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] In the room was a china doll With large feet. One of the men in the room said, "That's Sifu Bernie. He's the best psychic in Golden Gate Park." He was trying to explain a feeling He'd had. The other man said, "That's Sifu Bernie, He's the best conjurer in San Francisco." And the third man said, "He's Sifu Bernie. He's the best psychic in the world." <|endoftext|> "The Changing Sign", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, Growing Old, Arts & Sciences, Humor & Satire] It is not the same you used to be. Your face has a weary line. Your hair has a gray. The sun has a glare. I cannot remember your eyes. I used to be able to look In their eyes and know what they'd see. But somewhere down the line Your eyes have lost their light. They are not the same you used to be. <|endoftext|> "Auschwitz,", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, Growing Old, Health & Illness, Parenthood, Sorrow & Grieving, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Seas, Rivers, & Streams] Auschwitz is where the ashes are And where the dead are ever vigilant For intruders attempting to wrench Their jewels, their money, their health From those too weak to refuse The sapping of their power. I think of my mother who died And was unable to watch over me As I grew into manhood, Who had no wish to watch me die By an iron death, but now is here In this space made for one Where no nature can penetrate And where the mind is powerless To withdraw the veil by which it sees To think itself from the world, The spectre of my mother is here With me, who was not in the world When she was born in Grünau, in Austria, In the wilderness where my father wandered And came to the Promised Land, where the Angels Worshipped as their ruler the Christ Child. She is dead, is my mother. The changing sign over the altar Means that I must not stand there long. <|endoftext|> "The Wonderful", by Donald Justice [Living, Life Choices, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Heartache & Loss, Realistic & Complicated, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Arts & Sciences, Language & Linguistics, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Race & Ethnicity] I was a young man thirsty for the miracle Of being made whole. I stood naked in the garden Taking water from the sky. I drank & drank Until my legs became the moving things People say I was. They took time to think about My body, taking my skin like a camel. My father said the oaks in the garden were my mother. I had no mother. * When I was three I saw a man Hanging from a apple tree. * When I was ten I saw a woman Tied to a tree by her hair. * I was beaten when I was three & four by a man Wielding a shank of wood. * I was beaten when I was ten By a woman Wielding a shornake key. * My father said life is like a book Of black & white facts And some pages are blue And some are pink. I know my father said that Because he said so. * I am living my life Like a map of Russia Shattered in the back. * My father said life is like a door Opening & closing. * My father said time is like a thief Stealing my apple tree. * My father said death is like a house Built on sand Where children play In the sun. * I saw my mother die Twice. <|endoftext|> "In Time", by Donald Justice [Living, Death, The Body, Time & Brevity, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Arts & Sciences, Painting & Sculpture, Poetry & Poets, Reading & Books, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] I. <|endoftext|> Ares; with far other tone, A mortal spirit falls on mine ear, And brings it into the fields of thine, Where the great heavens and the dark earth are, Where the rocks lie low, where clove and briar grow, And the moist mould snares the foot of the tree; Where the poor worm is put to his study, And all the waves are rich in the sun's stallion-tide; Where now to-day a conqueror's haughty tread Grows fierce and great, and hides the soil he hath lost; Where now the day is a dragon, and night A slave to the shape of a wingèd hunts-woman, Who weeps o'er her young in the wan grass green, When already her leopards in the wood Grow bold and ferocious, and her hounds begin To show themselves, growl and howl and grow in squadrons; Where all the world of living things grows dim and strange, With the slow dawn and the night, and the subtle shades, When the faint hemlock on the old red-trees gleams, And the eyes of the forest can blind you and I To the steady radiance of the unclouded skies. O morning land, O morning sky, O strength, O rest, O life, where thou art far from thy waste! Thou art not darkness; O rest in thy sleep! Thou hast not seen the dawn! and thou hast not known The strife, the splendour, the red splendour of the sun. And a sound came to me from the silent land, A sound of far-off waters in broad noon-time, And the straining athwart of the thinned air Of countless ships, coloured as rose and white, Crowded as, rising over desert and field and mead, The manta rose, a vivid star amid the brood Of myriad galaxies: and the far sea-currents Flared and faded; and far-heard were fleets that stirred Sail-long on their voyage, silent as wings on sleep Wooed by the torch-light on the bosom of the sea. When the sick man heard the wind go past his head, And his eyes look northward, suddenly the face Became gay and glad, and the gaunt hand would stretch And strangle the hot fever; and the blue eyes Would glisten with long rapture; and the breast Would swell and leap and forget the icy couch; And the loud and short breath and pulse-beat all Were like the bridal songs of unknown people At distance heard, who shall continue till death To sing and talk with one another, and to talk With every new-married creature that comes along; Or as the dainty-coloured clouds of morn Over garden-walled castles drift, that seem To hover; and the soft eyes of the child Are fixed, with infinite tenderness, on his True loving father, the watching stars above. The dancing-girl knew me; and she knew me well, Not only by my broken gourd as a sign That I was servant in a strange place and time, But by my tortured face and my gaunt frame, My spirit's writhing on the ice of pain, My death's terribly-wounded mind, my past's Faded, neglected beauty, and my never-blest Young flesh, all conquered by the ever-cursed wine Of passion that hath no brain, the rage of blood That doth not burn to its burning goal but fain Would refined be first into a soundless flame Then into a tornado of shrapnel-shock. She had seen me wander by the river-bank In worn-out, spilt garments, pitiful, alone, I, who had fought with pain to be a man, And had conquered, and made sweet the wine of life In the tumult of a passion, and come out slain. She had seen me, and she knew me well, I, the pitiful servant, I, the fool. She met me, and with quick gentle touch Touched my hand, and slowly drew it to her breast, And like a wind-breath was her hand's soft rest Upon mine, till she grew like flame to me Blown some new mystery of the stars above. And I had seen her, yet the night grew dark Before she shone in any glimmer there: And I had dreamed her, yet the dream grew dim Before she went from me; and the night grew dark Before she fled from me. The stars grew dim Before she vanished from the sky; and so All-painful love grew dim before my eyes, That in my soul I, the soul-gut fearing, Felt her fear-lit body, half-fear, half-desire, Soft sleeping like a life-flame, a flameless fire That melts not, though kisses were given her; Or as a risen leaf is touched by the wind That blows a man towards the sun, and shuns The wrath of storms that may devour him on the way: So did she love me, and I had her now. How sweetly to the world were dying and death, With sunset and the sea and music and the sheen Of foam-flowers, and the wide flowering beach Where lay the yellow-sheened crowns of flowers Gathered in groups, like walls of gleaming wood, And many-coloured shells of sea-grape shells Lifted on the sand; and the smooth-flended hair Of warm-furred sea-horses, blithe-eyed and full; <|endoftext|> I've known these years The days before I met you Were fairer far than this. When men had strength like us, In peace or war, A stranger's hand was never at arm's-length, But held the rose to kiss. Now we are strong like you, But strangers' hands are at arm's-length And hold the rose. I said, "Here is the place," And we started at our speed, You said, "You've never said Where you have been before?" And I to her, "Only to a sea Of violet waves that beckon to me Along a road Where all are grasses, and each is a flower For me to choose from." We've ridden in chariots, yokes, And on an elephant; We've sailed with ships from afar To far-off worlds of sun and sand; And I'm the keeper of the gates Of Paradise to her, The Queen of all the flowers That grow upon its sod. Now, a child runs out of sight, The merry flower has ceased to play, And in its place A pale and slender maid, with downcast eye, Approaches with her muffled feet, The flower of sobbing notes. "There is no flower," Said the Queen, "in the wilds So like to you, my little flower, And if there be A sound like the wings of a bird As loud as the song the lark sings, I know, I know, Where it is, my child, And when I have found out its home, My child, my child, My pride will be more than wealth or fame, My hope will be A life where all the shadows are roses. And on the road to that life I will walk With the lark and the butterfly. "The fall of the snow, And the melting of the rain, And the glow on the streamlet's wing Is but the sign I give you now of the way I go to find you, my child, My star of splendour. "Come, come, come along, My flower, my flower. The time is short, my flower, my flower, Come, come, come along. The wind is blowing gay, And God is in his heaven, And Time is gone is golden haste, And none has seen nor heard Since yesterday." The little lotus-flower Sang in its wisdom poor, "Why should the moth care What flower is in the pot?" But when the lotus-flower Sang its wisdom rare, It came to pass that the flower Might not remember The moth that remembered not. The singer, Song, Sang in his joyous prime "The rose is red, the rose is sweet, And her whose heart is true Washes away the dust." But when Song was silent, The lotus-bloom Stood, a shadow tall, And cried, "And his whose heart is true Washes away the dust." A bee went singing by On his way to gather flowers; And the singing of that flower Was heard afar and dear. And, then, it came to pass That the life of that flower Was halter and blind Because a bee had sung that flower Whence none had heard. I said, "I shall be rich one day," And she said, "You shall be very." I said, "I shall be strong and great," And she said, "You shall be like God." I said, "I shall be happy all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be fain." I said, "I shall be honored and loved," And she said, "Oh, you shall be sad." I said, "I shall be tall and proud," And she said, "You shall be weak and poor." I said, "I shall be faithful all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be mad." I said, "I shall be true and fair," And she said, "Oh, you shall be vain." I said, "I shall be brave and true-hearted," And she said, "Oh, you shall betray." I said, "I shall be lucky all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be deaf." I said, "I shall be good all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be grave and cold." I said, "I shall be happy all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be old and blind." I said, "I shall be dear all my life," And she said, "Oh, you shall be short and blind." And now the wind is on the hill, And on the hill the wind is blown, The wind that lifts the mountains so, And the mountain-tops so very high; The wind that makes the forests sway And lifts the trees so high above; The wind that fills the chambers sound, And fills the houses with a din; The wind that is so strong and wild Throbs down the branches of the tree; The wind that chills the mountain-sides, And lifts the frozen streams below; The wind that fills the forest home With a perpetual roar and yell; The wind that is so dread and dread, Throbs up the thunder-like Summitt; The wind that shakes the mountain-tops And is so light and fleet; The wind that shakes the forests rue, And is so warm and heavy; The wind that shakes the crested waves And is light and gay; <|endoftext|> In all the world--doubtless, I may be forgiven-- Here she lingers on the brink of the sea, Seeking to win for herself the hand Of her love. Oh! tell me, and tell me true, Is there any chance of my ever receiving That note? If so, I will come to you-- Well, well, I have concealed it all, and you Know nothing of what took place in those moments Of pain, when I drew my knife from its sheath, Drew from my heart its bleeding thread, Drew from my life its dying breath, All for the love of my life--yes, for the love Of my life, which is the love of my life! You know that my heart was broken, and you know Nothing of the anguish I felt; But I could not take another's love, as others Have taken my love; I could not lay My life on a trusting knee, Like feeble girls who wail their love of the cold, Who wail the heartbreak which sunders The trusting knee from the heart, and yearns For the warm heart which once bound them; For I was of faith, which burns in the hearts Of true women, that deep in the heart Love keeps watch o'er their life, and his arm Erect, with the light of his love above Shall hold them, till they pass to the silence Which is nearest to heaven; And I have no bitterness against thee, Berthe Turocyneides, Whom I loved as my life depended on it, As my heart loved thee, And if thou askest from me One tear of memory of those bereft World-without-end moments of passion, Then, my friend, I shall ask from my heart No more, But I will tell thee this, that all my life I long to be bereft of thy presence. Away to the sea, away to the sea! The freshets catch and hold me in their hold, And the hot rocks reel me about; The little waves ruff up their beds to meet me, And the great ones beat me as they beat the others, And the serpent-sea is whole again; But the old barren rocks, and the marge of the sea, And all those wastes of red fire and dust, They will loom for a hundred years. Where the smooth rungs of the rocks, Where the shallow water runs, Where the wave-lashing waters run, Where the ebb-tide's loud laughter runs, And the eagle's nest is! Where the snake all night long Comes and bedews the skies With her glistening hair, And the lantern's warning shade, And the glow-worm's glow; Where the land-bird's song At the dead of night With a whistle long and loud, To the long and lean black sea, I must be gone! And I never a moment doubt That the smiles of the sea Will brighten ere long The dismal journey over; And long in the midnight black I'll laugh to see The spray fly up in a hurricane, The seas rise and set! With a whistle long and loud, To the long and lean black sea, I must be gone! And I'll never look behind From the darkness of the deep On the bosom of the wave, Or on the island-lights far off In the sea-sand's drench. And I'll laugh to see The spray fly up in a hurricane, The seas rise and set! Tide shall be toward sea-kings, Ebb to the dolorous tide And the long black sea. And the sea shall moan in its rage And the foam shall flag and swing And the sands shall reel and reel And the billows come down. And a summer wind shall blow To turn home the way I came, And I'll laugh to see The spray fly up in a hurricane, The seas rise and set! Twine the grass, O Blossom-Breaker, With dew for the Flower-Spoon's sake! If the Flower-Spoon but comes Warm and gladsome to the Flower, What better, than twine a flower? Gather the dew, O Bird of the South, In the morning's bright hour, When the daisies first break, And the grasshopper falls, And the sunbeam drops From the plumes of the Sandman As he wanders along! If the Flower but comes Good to go and go again, What better, than twine a flower? Breathe a secret to the Lady of Shalott, Twin daughters of the one whose beauty made dead, The grace of whom, though unseen, was like a perfect dream. Tell her that I see her, and tell her that I see, By her own fastness on the hill, The shy looking hill-lark in the stream, The kingfisher flying above the brook, The eagle from his hang gliding down, And the crane with the great breast of the water, And the scarlet cormorant, and the kite, And the crane-call that the blue-jays make, And the top-sparrow, and the meadow-hawk, And the osprey, and the whirling loss, Of all birds that fly over the field; All of them, leaf by leaf, Tossed on the blue-grey mountain-snow, Save the top-sparrow, and the red-breast, And the sparrow-starry whistle, <|endoftext|> And of other sights and sounds, On a theatre in Chicago, He made him sing so gay, It caused all the sold-out audience To drop to their knees and pray, While they were still sitting on their seats, To God and Christ, the while he was singing. He never once failed in his duty, To do his very best, And to make the best of things; And his voice was so crystal-clear, That it caused the people to kneel And to beg God to bless him, While they were still sitting on their seats, To God and Christ, the while he was singing. He had promised to follow his wife Into the ministry, And to raise a school for children blind, And to fight for the rights of the poor, And his life and his death were intertwined In the service of these causes. His children are scattered about, A dozen or more, But the house and the inheritance He left to his sons. A few years before he went West, To seek his happiness By making a better life for his wife, And bringing up a family. One is in medicine, And one a patent leatherman, One a dentist, And one a farmer's mate, And one a carpenter's mate, And one is in finance, And one is a publisher. The doctor, the dentist, Is called away one day, To treat a patient In the city of Lima, And he leaves his wife and children To care for the sick, While he goes and he returns The farmer's mate is away One week, to visit his wife Who is bed-ridden, And is called back when her health Has greatly improved, And takes advantage of her Of half his property. The dentist is called away One day to treat a patient In the city of Lima, And he leaves his wife and children To take her place, While he goes and he returns The grocer's son is away One day to visit his wife Who is crippled, And sits at the door to receive A bill for thousands and thousands Due him for pain. The businessman's son is away One week to visit his wife Who has a broken foot, And he leaves his wife and children To help and defend her, And never knows that she Is giving her up to sinful men, For money. The city banker's son is away One week on a trip, But he leaves a note for twenty thousand (The note was good, For the bank was in debt, But you never saw it) And when he comes home he will pay it, But he never learns that it Is the last note that will be paid. He never saw her faultless, But the fault he saw Was in the flood of traffic, And in human nature. Though she was there and forewarning, He thought that traffic Would take its chance, And he bought a home for his family, And paid the mortgage. The grocer's son and the city banker's son Are both gone, and the farmer's mate is away One week to visit his wife, And he takes her place And handles her And manages her And pays the bill, But no matter what he does, She never feels at ease. The doctor is away, And the farmer's mate is away, And there is no one left To pay the bill, And the notes will soon be paid, But he never learns That he is personally liable. The publisher is away, And his notes are bad, But no one knows it, For nobody is around to pay it. The husband's away to take his chance On the flood of traffic, And the wife is bed-ridden, And there is no one to defend her, And she never forgets That she needs A man to pay the bill. The children are scattered about, And they have left the mother, And the father is living With an old man friend, And the babe has died, And the baby just cried, And the babe is four. It was quite some time since I last looked in On the old house in the new town, But I see it clear, as I write this rhyme, In the old chimney corner, Where the "tree" -- as no one but I Has ever seen it -- Sits and shouts with the old familiar gambit Of insults and mischievous words. The windows are boarded, the doorway mouldered, The little desk and the bench are gone, The little boy and the baby's trunk, The old-fashioned rocking horse is drowned, And the old rocking horse with its rider cast down. And the old chimney is black. The pictures of the old family hang In the room overhead, And there's a little brass pin to remember me Where the big picture of the parrot appears, And I always smile as I see it. But there's no old card of it left now For me to see. The living room is nearly ten years old; And the kitchen has some pictures of its own, But there's no old card of the kitchen still, For the picture of the kitchen in the attic -- I think I can hear it often -- Is all of the kitchen still. There are some clothes in the closet, but no old card Of the little girl and her friends; The little girl and her friends have gone away, And the clothes are heavy and large, And the old clothes are soiled and dirty, But the old closet is dark. I remember a book of "disappointment," <|endoftext|> Like to a glinting sky and wind, Like to a vision lovely, fair. From all the wealth of this great land, From the fields of corn and grain, From the islands four along the sea, Come at this royal call, Every free born person brave and strong, And join me in the fight. That we may leave the birds and beasts, And we shall take our flight To the islands of content, To the land of light and song, To the home of the blessed. Then let the proudest and the best Stand forth, to face the foe, To the battle and the death, Of the sons of the North and West, Of the South and East. We are armed, for we bear in hand A Tablet of White Sand, On which is written--One-- That the Pilgrims go not home until The Rebellion forever rest For evermore. With the Tablet of White Sand Let the rebel flag wave At the silent land of the free, And a song never more be heard Till the angels sing. The Pilgrims are coming, the Pilgrim men, The ship is spread with flags, The ship that bore them o'er the sea Of the sea of snow. The Eastern Star and Crescent light Shall lead them in, Till the shining breast of the sea Burst upon them and they fall, Never to rise again. My life hath no aught to do With toiling and waiting years For a "commercial project," A building and fencing of some piece of ground, A lot or two in some men's shares, Or a "moment's patent dream." It is with heart and soul that I Am willing to do anything that's noble, And what's beneath the sun Is always best for any man; And when on sacred altars of love We offer up the "chosen offerings," The flame of that devotion Is unquenchable. For I know full well, whatever May come in future years, This body of mine will be A burden and a curse, And it's my fervent prayer That He, who put my burden here, Will take it away. He's our coroner, and as such He must inquire first, Into whose hands the cause of death Has been committed. You say he's cold and dead; so be it. But till he gives sentence, I say, Let the body lie. I can't believe this cowardice on his part; I can't believe he'll let such questions die, But some such questions as these Could he answer honestly, I'm willing to trust, And he can answer honestly that no question Could ever be asked. Have you a little question that you'd like to ask, And you're afraid you're too weak to ask it? Why, you may just as well ask it of him. Why, you're as strong as he is, and don't mind The chink in the steel. He may not ask you anything else either, And he may answer honestly, I'm willing to trust, And he can answer honestly that no question Could ever be asked. My dear little Rose, I have taught you manners, and I have taught you truth, And I've seen that your steps were not of your own free will, And I've brought lessons to you on many a Monday, And I've brought many a lesson. So, my dear little Rose, If you choose to go your way, Go with your teacher and mistress, and be true and brave, For there are things to be feared And there are things to be liked, And it's wiser to be kind than mad. If you want to marry, my dear little Rose, And your husband is a farmer, Then the thing to do is to ask your teacher for a loan, So that you may have a coat and hat, And to buy your own stock, And to buy a book to read, And a pencil to write with. If you want to marry, my dear little Rose, And your husband's a lawyer, You must not be a fool or a simpleton, And you must not play the fool with others, But you must ask for a loan from your teacher, So that you may go to the town to buy a dress And to buy some stock, And to buy a book to read, And a feather and a pretty stone, And to set in a socket. If you want to marry, my dear little Rose, And your husband's a clerk, Then you must be a school-reverend or a high-school principal, And you must get a leg-sheet to a school, Or to go to a convention, Or to teach school papers or law books, Or to read law books. But I hope that my dear little Rose Will not marry till she's older, For the more men are married the less they care, Or the less they know of the home, And the home is the greatest treasure there is; And I hope that my dear little Rose Will have a home to herself. Here's a penny for a straw, Here's a shilling for a pot; Here's a halfpenny worth of beer, Here's a quarter for a fish. Here's the change that I have won Working in the summer time, Here's a halfpenny that I have won Saving this morning. Here's a penny for a pig, Here's a shilling for a toad, Here's a farthing for a hare; Here's a penny for a hen, <|endoftext|> Hearken, for the tale of truth I tell. Troy-born Achilles, like a God, In counsel steadfast, firm in might, By Helenus' and Achilles' child Was beloved by all the people, Thy cousin was I, and thy sire, But Troy conspired against me first, So willed she would destroy me and mine, And send us hence into exile. And as our bond-slave thou wast formerly, Thou shalt be now. Nay come closer now, And mark me well; for I am he Whom thou hast served so long in vain. I am Patroclus, man and horse, Whom thy old master loved so much; And Troy conspired against him first In her desire to slay the noble steed. He was her charioteer, the very best, And all the people called him the best; And all the Phrygians envied him that day When he was driven from Troy into exile. Even then he fought in Aegypt's cause, And drove the chariot-yoke from the neck of his steed, And urged the fleet-foot horses on him, And slew Aegyptus in offensive strife. And afterwards in the horse-fight at Troy He slew good Mnestheus, son of Geraethus, Whom the people called on as on a god. Thence does the tale end the same,-- My name, Patroclus, both a conqueror And a man, is now no more. What God hath taken thee away, Who was once a mighty conqueror? And what new form hast thou been given? Take heed that now thine heart be good, To the foe oppose it not at all, Nor the better faith forget, Which thou wast fain to tell me o'er again The last time that we met together. O'er me it flutters, and around me it sleeps, And withers me with pains and sickliness, Leaving my senses tangled and confused; Like the wet sail on a bitter gale at sea, Which is pierced by a west-wind, and goes tear-torn Down on the tumbling waters, and the sun Looks harsh upon it, and the blustering north-wind Scatters it among the mountains and sleeps. So now my life seems finished, and I lie Buried in torment, to be freed at last Only by death, or by some cruel stroke, By sudden unawakening, or by stealthy swift Absolute quietude of death's long illness. But death will not come to me suddenly, Or by some sudden unawaking stroke, O King of men! Thou who keep'st unbroken The right and just and equal laws in all! Thou, who wast lately seen as wept to see The people perish for want of a spear, No longer now canst thou endure to hear The tale of great Achilles' excellent care, Nor of Patroclus' exemplary praise. Ah! what avails to hear, or to speak, To do, or to prevent injury? For thou hast fallen by thine own hand, and no one Can straighten or withhold thee from the grave. This word is unblest, yet well the may Assents: a brave man's life is a fool's life, As well as a good man's a fool's life. And that one's, too, who gives it can scarcely be Less than a life profane. But thou--to many's faith a true one thou art, Sufficeth me no warning, nor the fate With the sort of forewarning that I sing. Who knows what luck shall fall behind my eyes? I have no eyes to look to; my heart is mine To feel and to bring to just expectation The things that so the spirit fare, Till, when 'tis riven, as it shall be at last, The sum of its joys and of its sorrows stand Couched on the breast, as it were, of perfect health, And made to seem less than all save an idle dream. Long-forgotten author, first of our race Who cast upon our soil immortal words, Long-forgotten poet, first of our clan, Take thou this laurel for thy sacrilegious fault Of translating Boccace into our tongue. Sicilian words, Sicilian thoughts, remain Unransomed in the speech of our fair land, And neither heat nor cold, nor sea-pressure, can dry The seals of their eloquence. We have been unquiet in the night, And been long abject. We have been bad or good, As men have been, since that day of shame; And though long-forgotten now, We are as you are--with this difference only, That you have a voice. So now, when old Time Shall through the writings of your race appear, When such as you, such as these have done the same, When such as you, such as these shall do the same, What shall be the first that is done in yours, Pathetic, and ignoble, and obscene, But in the pages of a Nation's book, What shall be first in ours, Pathetic, and ignoble, and obscene? O mighty Poet, who art now Concealed in many a lowly thing, With what a fall the world shall ring When all the books are burnt with you, When all the tapes shall melt with you! With what a thud the tapes shall crack When all the books are done with you, When all the tapes shall melt with you! Howled through every writing thing, <|endoftext|> With bones that groan'd; a hideous form Stands in the sunshine with upturned face. Th' infernal genius of this place All his lean counsels add: "Of the Hierarchy despise Rideth, falsest of mankind, Quarrels and schisms, and faction's rage; Pray for interdict and damn'd term In the deep Caves of Hell to dwell. Then will Heaven show thee fairer skies And other stars; thou then shalt see Other stars that smile in happy hours, And hear other music; other groves Shall flower around thee, and thy days Number twice a hundred years." Thus he spake to dread Th' infernal Power; And forth his fatal anathema spread, Flaying the Seraphim one by one. Then Grandonio bespake the Son With hard, contemptuous lip: "By him in Heav'n and Earth who blest And blessed into being, both thou And Heav'n-born Truth; and thou wing'd Angel back From Achor's flood, both thou, from Truth's ire And Heav'n-born Light; by him thou and thy Light Before the humble Creation heipless stood, Both thou, thy Father, and th' Almighty's ire, And both thy friends Thou help'd both, though both by thee Misrepresented; him to remove From place to place was Thou move'd to do, And stinted less thy goodly light to give To poor excess; thus was he rand'd, and voide Of nature, purpose, and just election, Or purpos'd at first but more profanely. For now the true Ideas are restorer To peace and quiet, now the firm-set Sun Of day-spring comes from out the dread Deep; No more shall frenzied Orcus work inclement To hinder them, nor all his sly confusion round Diffuse his shadow dark'ning gullies in. Thou therefore cease thy perilous exceding; Let Morpheus teach sleep to th' lazie breast, And make it be no more a feign'd repose, But an actual memory; set on wise hairs His crown of prophecy, and let fair Dreams The long-expected knowledge wake." He ended, and the Night her vigil ceased At Fordunquiet; they, where they were, Up a green hill banked with leafy trees Now pleasant, trac'd their weary feet, and stood, As Rais'd in hopeful thought that slumbers sweet Might quench thir wanton fires, and warm them at thir rest. But Northward far as elsegate to the firth There ramparts rose, and strong towers, and a strong wall, And heavy cannons dark'ning all the land From Esk (the southern) in the South to Somnus (northern) In the North by Wirsing, whence a flood of rowling fire Ran Abilink; no man then knew if Britain then Would ere envy Ancient Rome her towering Fall, Or become a world-wide tyranny, a heap Of scorched pebbles, shap'd like stone, or a wall Of withering fire. The habitants thus driv'n, Diff'ring, saw the ships that came to seek the coast And itscontents; some few small vessels saw The gallant crews, and knew their Origin; But the vast vessels with their shrouds down cast, Like to a hostile host, to try the force Of wind and water, which to this domain They now and then received with fearless cheer. The French who had the nearest chance, in thin Went on before; the gallant vessels shoaled Beneath the oak that on Threlusa's (10) head Standes witness, and from side to side the waves Roll'd furious; yet to their native isle of Ar, At length, return'd, they arrived safe and well, Though winds and water from the promis'd shore Afar had caus'd postponement of their end. Of these, those, that reach'd Ithaca, From their new found Naïs the worthiest twain Taught him in all civility to treat His Strangers, and with this a kindly mind Convey'd him to his house, where still he dwelt In fond affection, and in ample fields Saw ever as the seasons chang'd, with joy Happy, though perhaps not brilliant, were his lives, For Happy both his begetters were; but they Dwelt apart, nor could at all with readiness Their son be baptiz'd, the dumb only-born Of Coritus and Iölaüs, till at length Some tarrying ended, when at once both were join'd. But now with hind'rance barrier so impassable Grievous to them both, that mortal could not pass, Such was the festal joy at Baptism: for, to those Deceiv'd, in time departed, death had seem'd a span; And therefore were the Turks incredulous how they Could hope to reach Sodom, ere the promised day Of Paradise come by little and step by little; Therefore they spent their time in song and dance, And revelry and laughter, that were no less Religious, and no less medicinal To the pain of their wasted cities and court. But others in the heart of Elagabalus And in his own more jealous, no less fire-wise, Had set the fear of vengeance, that like a pest Still hover'd around the city; such a flame Of his own hand kindled him, as might have prated With blithest words about a fire: to each man <|endoftext|> Were plainly visible, Upon a lily white and red They blazed in line. "The wine that night Gave the dame in answer Her first precious sleep, And in the morning, she 'Mong maidens all was found Dead in sleep." "Heigho! can you guess The woe that made her start? It was to be aye a bride, And her maiden side Her body bled." "So ere she was dead She had disclosed Unto those eyes of blue The sign of love," The bride replied, As her fingers, lightly touching, Sought to explain. The years that are to come Will not bring the chance of me and her Feeling the kind of love that we Gave to each other. And it may be--may be, heaven only knows-- That to their dying day Our hearts will not forgive each other. If they ever come to collect We may not know it. The rain that cleanses a pond may leave behind The ugly lees that breed parasites; So may the sunshine of another sun Come back to many but dry the tears That hid the gold of years of care That once dazzled her young eyes. And we may be too old to love, And she may be too cold to love, Or there may be no love at all, And she may never have loved me." The moon shone over the moonlit world In the silver crescent on the night When we were one, and one in heart And mind. The world was in bloom, and we had found In the heart of summer a place to rest, And both in voice and step. And though I paced my narrow track of life I knew that she had trod her quiet way, And all its rapture with equanimity, And as clear-eyed as any star. The dreams that floods of tears could not quench, And the long-hid tears that overfond birds Awoke at evening in the summer woods, Were parted. But still we found Some sanctuary from the buzzing rush Of liberty, and from the cry of those Who wandered in the busy mart, Our people, The brood of beings who were not we, But sought us out from land and sea, And took our society, Till, wearied of its impress, they passed And left us in our own domain. And then we wandered through the world And looked at each sweet feature through The wondrous crystal of love's vision, That had tuned us both to see The central meaning and the break Of beauty into lines of bond That linked our two psyches. And each prescient sense was sharp, And balanced the whole against a point That we could never reach alone. We were two members of a twin-born race, With similar loves, and similar souls. Then time that withers a wilted leaf Came with the flowers to the pale finish, And a sun poured on the darkening wood And struck gold, and a summer heat Was hot upon our tanned faces. And we were joined in a holy league That traced its existence backward through years That our pale faces had shone in, And drew a shield of yellow wheat Between us. We were two souls of living flame, Spirits, though clay, but yet animate, Whose being waxed with the blossoms that filled Their hands. Their love waxed with their love of us, And theirs was a purer and a higher flame That came from a purer and higher source. It was an upward path that led to God In a fair aura of expectancy. We had entered into union with Heaven, And it was good, and we knew it, I have known cities which were queens to the days That I remember, quiet and fair. They were not perfect, but I dwelt in a place Where there was not a single ill to be seen. No cobblestones marred the quiet of the walk; No black and yellow beggars were to be seen; But the air was soft, and the day was clear, And the river flowed between the bridges that were new, And the eyes of the children were happy and clear, And the lives of the children were pure as the dew, And the creatures of the earth were in the making, And the thoughts of the world were for the gaining, And the dwellings of men were growing, And the fires of the north were in the dark lands of the night. I have known cities of immense beauty that were made By the mighty forces of Nature, and they were Majesties in size. They were beautiful beyond measure, and grand As a palace set in a virgin plain, Or a pebble-stone in the showering main. And the kings of the ages looked at these wonders, And they seemed fair, but they were not full of light. There were thunder clouds overhead, And darkness, and the shadow of God's judgment-seat. There were fields of sin and sorrow and pain, Where the haggard head of the whale lay dead In the foam, and the sterns of the ocean-warfarer, With their burning trail of smoke, Were sailing from the rim of disaster. But there was peace over the plains of the home, And the laughter of children, And the lilt of the dancing stars in the blue, And the souls of the children were light and strong. There were captains of the nations, and great men, And slave-ships with ropes and sails, And ocean-voyages, and travail of the seasons; <|endoftext|> elements of art To which the beasts are as the tools of the builders of the house. If these bear the master’s touch so must their colours be His touch that paints on canvas dazzling bright; And though it be the nature Of beasts to be as they are The art that mars this nature By outward seeming — Thus, then, I said to her Daintier colours seem Blotches of paint, and any fool Will tell you that. Her eyes, brown and soft As dew drops on a rose, And light as the young night Before the dawn, when she looked down And saw the world change round her, From the light where she went down Under the feet of gods, To the light where she looked back At the world and the chrysalis Of things where she came from — If, in my dreaming here, I could get By some secret she had told That colour too could be bred In her own mind — A secret she too thought to keep (Though what she thought it might be) — I might then learn And tell it you. Her body, I said, Was made of all things bright; There was no colour her face No form she lacked; So colours must come from her The light to give it place. If colours that we see Can be so faint, and yet Paint her so bright, so white — Her lips were red like wine, Her eyes were blue like dew; She had hair of gold (The same as red wine, The blue like the rain); She had laughter in her eyes Like the air of night; The stars laughed in the heavens And the leaves of the tree And still I see the things she did For me — I might not do them for myself, Nor might I do them for her; But she did them for me — She filled my life with laughter And light, And so, I praise her. Now the trees are all tired with sway And the sky is sleepy with sleep; Round the little brook There is no bird to be seen, Silent and brown the meadow Heeds not the song of the brook. The moon, like a vine, hangs bright In the blue night, And the red leaves of the trees Have turned to silver and gold; But I have watched the sunset glow For you, and it grows deep and sweet, The red, red sun. There is a sound of bowling over now, And green is the ground, and the air is hot; There is a smell of wickets and stumps, And bats are rounded and ready, and caps on; The ball is left on the green, and fast from everywhere; There are stumps in his reach, and there is every man's skill. They bowled here that they might have won, That they might be not overfooled of Fate, For that which is stronger than it is strong May not be; And many, as they bowled here, were dead, Because it was stronger than they knew. There is a sound of bells, and green is the ground, And the air faints and trembles, and a scent of wickets and stumps; There is a smell of wickets, and stumps, and bats, and caps on; There is Death, that fell here, and Death is the green, And all is gray; For I have watched the sunset glow For you, and it grows deep and sweet, The red, red sun. Now a man and his horse are through with paddock, And his team is pulling away fast, And the crowd is on his back, and he hears the huff and the puff Of the little smoke that he goes through. Now he must come to the breaks, And now he must come to the rope; Now he must come to the end of the world. Now there is a sound of guns and men, And a clatter of swords, and the crowd is on his back, And the horses swerve and jolt and pant, And the men sweat as they feel the day wane, And their faces are red. Now he must come to the breaks, And now he must come to the rope; Now he must come to the end of the world. Now he must come to the breaks, Now he must come to the rope; Now he must come to the end of the world. The crowd may cut his ears off, But he cannot make him go; For he bows his head in his doubt, And the crowd may cut his ears off But he cannot make him go. The bails have bent, the topsails are furled, The night-wind wails, the stars are fallen; The westering moon, with a silver train, Gathers above the Quean, and smiles On the wool-white sea. Now the ship is steering in To the calm rock-walls slow and sweet, Where the dolphins, gray and senseless, Dance in glimmering foam. There are faint cries of women on deck, And faint cries of men on the yard, But the moon is shining on the sea, And the wool-white sea is shining on the moon; And a sound of hook and vowel Strikes and steals in among the cry and shout, And a voice, far off, cries alone, Over the quays of the town. The men- at-arms are pressing up To the cast- iron railing, keen and shrill; The gondolier is hanging out to the cry, <|endoftext|> Oh, then I smil'd, and with my smile she went. Then aye the dead water gurgled and groan'd, And the black raving current swoln and seethed, And the sharp eddy whirl'd and dash'd and dash'd again, Till by and by the huddled vessel crawled Home to her keel, and here she moors her guard, And dreads her shoal, and turns her prow and sails. By the witching night-air ever cruel swept Her cheek, she scarce could see or breathe or move, She fought the pangs of barren despair, Till soft starlit waters murmur'd near, And bright star-lit waters farther off Drew forth a glimmering day that smile'd and kiss'd Her weary bark and fill'd her sails again. And you, my readers, friends of the sea (For well you know the toils of life at sea), You know how close and hard the storm can fall, How men must drown, and how the thirsting sharks Vie for a bloodier banquet from your bleeding frame: The midnight from the fiercest of these blows Is safer far than to return to land. So round the mother's throat she clung and swing'd, Her arms grew weak and lifeless, for the sea Rag'd hard in her when the dawn came up, And shrieking round her, fill'd her ears with cries, And round and round her vessel's keel it flew, Till, through the blinding wave-cloud, where it met The peopled sea, it smote her squarely on the breast. Her look was sad, her ears were dim, her eyes Restless o'er the ocean, where it glided, heard Such moaning from the bounding keel as make The heaving sea still red in eve's red air: And with a downward look, she saw her child And stopp'd her hand--then all the rushing wave Sank on her breast, and cast her on the sand, And sleep and death and darkness closed her eyes. A little craft of Nantz, whiche'er The rolling main or starry heaven has roll'd, From some desert isle or isle of fire Has sent a daring ensign, that may chance To show a distant world that she is nigh. The world behold! and feel a nearer hold; And hail the pilot as he steers by land or sea. Ere the high sun sunk low, that hung his head And smiled in air, a Nantz in her deck With flying crowd drew in her joyous crew; And when the morning found that glorious light Which warm'd all earth, and closed the glimmering sphere, The vessel rode the wave, and left her crew In peace on that eternal shore far off. Through her fair awning-walls, that to the wind And tide fresh as the June sunshine seem, And bright as the fiery-colored rose, Rode Lucile de Nevers with a voice that blest A sunny New Year. She seem'd like one Who walk'd a sunny way, and a peaceful mood Mooded even her most severe red mirth. The gentle little dame was dressed in blue, With white neckcloth and a dark blue hood, And round her feet loose cotton socks went round; Her girdle had a crimson spot or two On it, and three white slippers joined with blue To complete her dress of blue, and give Him more of comfort in the coming storm. And thus she went forth; and so she wander'd on Down the leafy lanes that led to the shore, And watched the ebbing waters as they went With calls of foam above them, and the rifts Of mixed cloud. When suddenly there seem'd To break the day a cloud of spray, and high Up bleach'd the defiles of the green hills, And, far away, faint spots of sun appear'd. She start'd in fright, and watch'd the light Spread wide along the heavens; and shuddered through To such a horror as sometimes grips The bravest who have lead armies to Bloody victory, and marched through sore distress In some unmeasur'd field, and buckler'd have fought. She got away from the sweet open place, And hid herself among the wafters gray, And so she was not seen, but I heard a foot Ascend the stair she climbed, and on the door Of the little garth, where Lucile stood, knock'd. And then she beckon'd with her hand, and knock'd Three times; and the heavy wicket on the door Cheeked, and she bade the maid be silent, and then The maiden heard the words of love, and all The heart of Lucile thus betray'd to the maid: "There is no need for silence, Lucile! here I am alone; listen to my story. You see the dew-drop glisten on the apple That sheds its golden tinge on the tree, And the low, rustling brook among the boughs, And the cool, fresh air of the Autumn day. "Oh! that is not the earth, this day, my dear, But the lovely world of the flower and tree And the bird's-nests on the distant hill! I hear the far-off fiddler's sounding bow, I hear the silver smacks of the rain, I hear the bright, sweet cadence of love Murmur'd in the vale by the ancient tree. "And then I turn and behold you there, <|endoftext|> But it was a harsh yet gentle girl The faun spoke, and she knew that it was. She felt his arms of fur about her waist, And the wry-tufted beard upon her cheek. Then he led her through the hedge Into a meadow where the dew had dried; And then he showed her trees and grass, And showed a marble-floored pool. It was a place of beauty, And through the grass a running stream Was bordered with willows green, And a little shallop sat thereon. "Now be kind," the faun said, "And get in; for this is a Fairy place. The water's never fit to drink, And you may splatter the grass all over; But sit up on the bank, and hold your face Up towards the ceiling, and look at me. I'll tell you a story, and we'll go Together into the quiet air." He rapped with his staff on the nest Of wicker armour, and they climbed in. The seat was of woven satinwork, And starred with yellow feathers, and its boss Was jeweled with a little sparrow's head. Its sides were of calf's-hide, with streaks Of blue and purple, and it had a ring Of buckle on its strap, with clasps of gold, And buckles of broken gemmed amber; And on its perfect side was embroidered A broidered apricot-feather and a blue And scalloped design, half ruffled and half rolled, Like a nest of butterflies' down. He seated them each on a cushion made Of widowed ermine, with velvet cushions Of kitten-skin, and broidered yellow twine Wound round with knots of poppy-flower, And filled the room with romance and stillness. Then he took out his golden pen and wrote A scolding to give to Mother Goose. She took it and looked much surprised, And her breast seemed as though it would burst, And her eyes brimmed over with their flow Of newly poured milk, and she shook And trembled as she read, in deep dismay, A letter that SOMEbody wrote To Dear, the postboy, by a dashed ashen branch. He sat upon the dirty grass By the dripping log, and read the letter; For, to his thinking, it was not that She had written it, but the wild fowl Sent it to him, to betray her; For she knew how stealthily the quill Is pilfered from the baby's mouth, And how the baby-man turns pale When the scriber lays his finger-tips To his lips, and feels what is written. So he sat and cut the parchment shred By grim shred, and laid it one by one Along his arm, and then his thigh; Then the bib and envelope together Went with the rest; and there it lay, Telling of Alice's despair For Bob, his darling, gone away. But in the meantime the doctor Had asked of Nurse Betty if she Knew of anyone here without His medicine who would write, in form Admissible, of a tranquil intent, Of Alice's despair, and Alice's name. Nurse Betty laid her head upon The cold stone floor and shook it wildly. "Oh, God! Oh, God!" she exclaimed in tumult. "For might I see the child, I'd keep My vow to Mother Goose, and say In heaven my soul's good husband's gone Where Alice may not see him more. "And, oh, the terror if he came And found the house all empty, and then Down, down, and then outside in the street He'd cry, 'What dreadful Alice-ONE-OH! How Alice's fallen ill, and gone lame, And Alice's dying, and--here they are!' And drag her by the hair, and write A melancholy note for Bob to find. "Oh, God, why has she left me?" she said. "And left my helpless babe beside? Oh, God, have pity on us both!" And all the time she rose and paced And cried, "God, I am so weary." Then, ere she heard the gate behind her, Bob pushed the door wide open, And in she went with one great bound, And it was Alice, coming lame Again, and feeling with her toes For the gate, but finding not its key, And numb and cold from head to feet, "Please open for me," she cried. "It's Alice, one more sorrowing." It was not Bob who answered, But the red clay of the road, And the twigs and tufts of fern, And the great huge road-rag. But the key-hole was missing, And the door was moldy, And the mold was on the carpet Where Alice had lain. "Oh, God!" cried Bob, "Oh, God!" But the dry, bleak, bronzing sun Was a dark-skinned man; And he slowly laughed at Bob: "Go in, and shut the door, For you can't outrun me." With a shiver and a thrill And a bounding of wings Bob bounded like a runner At the voice of his name, And out into the sunshine, Out of the darkness. In and out and about The house like a barrio He zigzagged over Bob, And he ran for a cab; But cabmen he'd never seen Were so few, and cab-horses Were so few, and cab-drivers <|endoftext|> How shall I measure in the path of time The milestones of my life, as at each turn It takes its way?--and the question is a joy Lit by the gleam and glory of the night, As o'er the past thy beacon shines! Let me tell thee, My son, what in my youthful days was rife, And what, alas! is no more rife! When, with the day's glad light, The morning star Came dancing forth, It heralded the song of minstrels, who Were heralds of delight; With note Rich, melodious, and sweet, To waken the earth In its cradle to the sight of light! From shore to shore Rings the silver bell, O'er hill and dale, The wild-moose growls! And the wild-moose howls, and the forest sleeps! A strange alarm Hath fallen on the breast Of the mighty Sariola; For the bow is broken, And the hunter fled! "O thou, of all the forest, Grandly bred, Of limbs so strong and bold, And beauty all complete, Who readest aright The dreams of Nature, and wouldst they come? "Who wouldst transform the feeble heart Of a weak girl, To the brave, undaunted heart Of a sturdy youth? Nature, with guileless breast, Hast thou not seduced? Art thou not stronger than her? Thou canst not change, but thou canst defeat! "Hast thou not forced her to flee, With her tresses flying, To the rageful arms of one Who would unloose The svelte virgin's clothing? Unchain the white Veils that in verdure twine About the virgin's brow! Rouse thy child, the trembling one, The young and innocent! "O, thou enchanted Grandee, what is the charm That constrains thee to flee The strong arms of thy brother? Their naked swords Are like the tuft of fur On the back of the rushing snow-white snow-white cloud!" And the grandee answered thus: "It is a secret, indeed! I would tell it to thee, But the hour is not yet ripe! At the present moment, In the world's journeying, In its passing, It might harm some one, I trow! It might prove a evil augury!" And the youthful hunter, Quick and stately, With the step of the strong horseman, Steadily walked onward, Toward the sparkling of the morn, Toward the glittering of the sun! Stolid upon his couch Lay the strong man-brute, Knew no dreams, no hallucinations, Of the beauty or of the strength That were roaming abroad in his breast. And the beautiful woman lay still, With her dark and rigid face Closing his feeble eye-lids. When at midnight the storm-wind Threshed the ice-fern, When the lightning seared the pines, And the earth was in pain, Waking she heard the muffled roar Of the tempest howling, And the demon, as on a blood-vessel, Rushed through the cavern in pursuit of the beauty that lay bleeding on the earth. Waked at daybreak the strong man Grew more grand and strong, And he flexed his mighty arm Toward the fair woman, But he could not reach her, Though he stretched with all his strength. On the earth lay the woman, On the grass the youngling, In her hand the small one Still breathing softly! And he thought of the hunter, And of his bow and arrows, As he watched in the black of midnight The bridal of the two. How to bear the bridal? How to draw the bow? How to lift the dripping? To the frosty mountains To bear the child, Where the snow-wind howls, Where the storms toss it, And the torrents flash it? And the wise man answered: "I know not, I know not How to bear the bridal! I am unaccustomed To behold the human body In such conditions of pain! This is a bridal which I will not witness!" Loudly the storm-wind howls In the muffled roar of waters, And the torrents flash, As the swift lightning flashes. Through the cave the hunter Comes with the war-horse And the weapons they bring, For the slaughter of deer and goat, For the feast of fur-robe! Grandly lords the hunter In his forehead the symbol, On his arm the tawny, Gored and feathered, Like the panther's, Like the tiger's, Like the lion's, Like the wolf's, Like the eland's, Like the reindeer's. In the dim and red dawn, Countless monsters, Like the snow in wrath, Like the rain in fury, Like the flame in passion, Roar around the mountains, All around the valleys! And the storm, triumphant, Clamoreth loudly, While the earth with terror Throbs like a steed struck with terror, And the air with horror Fleads the glancing lightnings, Like the glittering shards of gold, Like the glancing flames of water. With the roar of rushing waters, With the foot of snow-storm, <|endoftext|> Thy price shall be the recompense of thy deeds." He ceased, and none had blamed the good Astolpho, Save one who felt some doubt in his doubt's starting: For each, his hound or hound's pack had on him A trusty friend, with some advice to give, And talk of hounds and their business, and hunt, If talk they would or no. These men are worth More sorrow than they know, and worse remorse; So let your hunter be conversant And Tip him easily: with him you're safer, Than many a pagan with a sword and spear, Who ne'er by day or night have vowed to fight With demons in some desert of the North. But fear not, withdraw the hex thou givest To poor frightened human kind at large; For that, alas, is doom'd by gods above, That never to be pursu'd should be, Whose fearless hearts are set on what is right, Whose lives are well inclind, whose days are long, Who chuse the good, and never shun the bad. With him, who worships empty forms and worthless, The soul shall be at peace and happy be, But never for a night be vex'd or troubled With light and heavy thoughts; but calmly bear A mild and steady mind, restrain'd by will Stronger than the decisions of the strong, Willing to suffer, yet constrained by power Above the impulse of the strong and strong Regard'd as faults, not as crimes, possess'd By weak but virtue making man, nor sought By weak but malignant fiends; be content. What then, unhappy woman, should I wish? I ask for nought, I seek for all in thee; To be exil'd from all I have possest And all I now possess is all enforc'd, I am detain'd and detain'd from thee, And thine be the fault, if thou refuse These lifeless words to remain the same; If unrequiting love thou wilt be, And do what I no more shall need, Then love not me, sweet love, I beg Love me no more, I swear it now. No, no, sweet love, I am not vexed at thee, Or if I am, my vexation is no sin To prove by hate what love supposes. From this shock let us take hold:--thou'lt find I am not to be gain'd or lose'd, In love or hate, at best or worst; And therefore am I secure, because In either case, if love be there, hate's not. For what is there so like to what is thine, As love to hate, or love to scorn, More tender, more inviolate, More free from all control, more strong, More hard to pluck, more sweet to woo, And full of frantic joys and fears, As any tree which bloometh, Fall'n into foul rot in the earth? If then thy bosom's seeds I might take, And roll them in thy cloth, and there Plant e'en thy fairest flowers to be, What is thy name then, fair doleful flower? Thou art not mine, but he that will Be mine must also love thee still; But I shall never love thee yet, Though so it be, thou dost not woo me. Sweet am I, and would to hate me wound, I bleed to thee, but not with blood of grapes: The waters give me up to thee, and bathe My wounds with smiles, and cool them with thine: No more of this; mine own good be thy will, For good is good, and ill made, ill choice, Bad working through bad objects led, And all we err in, we err in still. Nay, lovely love, I come to woo thee not, For love I cannot be, For love I could not keep without thee, If thou wert worthy me. My love is not for thee nor for thy gold, My love is strong, though not for price; If gold could crown it, it would not lack, But I have other things for thee. I live not for my self, I live not for thee, But for our mutual good; If that do seem ill, believe me, good. Love thou the dove, yet fly from the hern; I love, but love not yet a bird. O, yet I would the dove return And live with the dove in the nest; Then we might hope for a suitor's gold When I have gain'd thy love. Sweet, think not my love for my sake Is lost in the showing of thine eyes: For though mine be not thy heart's desire, Mine beat as true, as thine to be. Thy beauty doth more affect my thought, Though not as, thy heart's desire; If mine beat true, mine heart can be To beat as true, thy beauty. If for my sake, and that thy heart may move To love it as it is mine, vanish Those eyes from thine; if thy heart grow warm To hear and to heed one loved utterance, Let be those words, whate'er they be, And be thou loved as I love, or not at all. O, pleasant it were in hell to die, And be with those I love; Or pleasant rather to die and be dead, And know not whether they love me or not! Or pleasant it were to die and find No knowledge, nor any matter done, Nor any roar of any hell-born dog! <|endoftext|> There are more things to love than one, And I am master of my fate. <|endoftext|> "Father, Father", by Howard Moss [Activities, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Landscapes & Pastorals, Trees & Flowers, Weather, Winter] Snow fell heavily on the road into the hills, in the valley between the mountains. All day I had heard the man-hunt was up, men shouting down rough country roads. It seemed a shame to be hiding out of doors, in a strange part of the country, under the snow. So I drove up into the hills, to the edge where the valley narrowed, flattening out in the sunlight. I knew the place by heart— it was the old farm—but it was winter and the wind was blowing snow off the flats into the valleys. The valley was white with ice, and there were hundreds of thousands of snow beneath- the- ground flakes, and many mound of dead leaves, and buried trees in the snowbank, facing the wind. The wind lifted the snow into the valley like piles of wood across a fireplace. It was dark in the valley; the wind blown gold the pile of wood and carried it into the hills. The wind carried the dead leaves and snow against the long drop-off of snow-capped hills. I sat in the snow. My hand was cold. I had put it in my pocket to use for cold-weather jokester's talk. I wondered if anyone had seen or heard from you for a week. My heart was still skipping. I thought I might have touched your arm when you left for the trip. I wondered if you were all right. I had sent a telegram: "Somewhere the wind blows cold. I'm going out to-night." <|endoftext|> "A Small Memory", by Howard Moss [Living, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Nature, Animals] Dawn broke gray and cold on the mountain. The creek was flowing in its usual small way and the sun hung like a gray bell over the mountain. It had been so long since I had seen this mountain that I could not remember its exactness. I could almost see it like a tree, though it would not grow to be more than that. I had to rely on the books I had brought with me, which were very thin records of things gone by. The white pages of some of them were faded. But what I saw in the mountain today could not have been anywhere else but there, on that hill. When I thought I had seen it all, a change came over the mountain. It seemed to change in its entirety. It was like seeing a city destroyed in a war, which all old ruined cities are, until they are not. The wind picked up and knocked down branches. I thought I was not going to go on. I saw trees that had been there a year ago fall in the next hour. I saw so many things I will never be able to forget. <|endoftext|> "The Master of Reverence", by Howard Moss [Religion, Faith & Doubt, God & the Divine, Arts & Sciences, Philosophy, Social Commentaries] A man who is afraid to ask for God because he is not there and cannot be asked into being, is the slave of those who are able to offer him some imagined day of freedom and of happiness. And because he is no longer in the world, is, like a bird frozen in a cage, a thing of the imagined future, the present, and the past. If there were a God, he would not be afraid of constant doubt, and would be able to ask, because he would be in the world, asking now that he might be certain, as only free men are. A God who is continually in the world would ask us to believe in him when we are no longer in doubt, and would be there for us when doubt itself becomes our question. A God who is not there for us would never be sure of our faith, and would be like a bomb waiting to explode, and would never be a flower, but would be a sword, a shield, a spear, a dart, a kind of poison that would kill us as we kill other creatures, and make God a dart that would kill us as we throw it. <|endoftext|> "Whose Body", by Lorna Dee Cervantes [Living, Death, The Body, Love, Desire, Relationships, Gay, Lesbian, Queer, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] Because I am tired of your kisses being free like sails to drift on the ocean without a destination. Because I am tired of your words being broken into three little parts and not being a poem because your words are too heavy for you to lift your hand up and tell me how much you love me. Because I am tired of seeing you as a blanket, as a sword to decapitate my oppressive family, as a tongue to taste the sweetness of your skin. Because I am tired of wanting to take a nap and not being allowed. Because I am tired of watching you drift away like a bird after I untie the bird cage. Because I am tired of believing you are my friend because you are an ocean, and because I am tired of being the wave that you leech. Because I am tired of being a hand, a tongue, a scream, a door, a body. Because I am tired of you changing and being changed <|endoftext|> Aye! if you'll allow me, sir, the heathen art, The country has, as I can see, a store Of certain little branches of the family tree, Which I should be delighted to draw, If you will give me leave a few moments. For 'tis a sad thing in the dreary state Of this world to know one's own kin, And that this right are only granted on To those who are the most wicked. And yet I'm glad to be own'd by you, On any terms, and at any time; I trust, for I think I'm honest; But this one circumstance I've notice'd, And would ask you to consider it too, --If you would only point it out to me, When you have made your selection. My father's name of course you'll remember Is Blackburn, which you all must know; But there's a little branch of the tree, Which stands for some years after his death Before it springs to a mature plant, And never, I'm sure, is thought such by bark, As 'Hopkins' is, or 'Brown' is, or 'Quinlivan'. For here they've a brave man in their net, Whose worthy qualities must be pitied Who had the foresight to name him. I doubt not if you know the place, Nor doubt not that you do; And if you have not travel'd there, Then pray you read the following page Without delay, to your brother John, And let him know it as you can, Before the times has come to pass, That he too may be careful of thieves. The following morning, when I'd waken'd, And tried to think and try to pray, As well as an imp, I found that I Had slept, or rather were still, asleep On the road to Farewell, with no stone Wherewith to thrust between my thumb And the blind that cover'd my head, So, taking my pen and paper, I Wrote the following epistle: Good mother! blessed be the day That thus to you I come, Not disobedient to your wish, But my own will; and oh! By all those counsels of the age, By all the wisdom of the age Thou hast given, I now renew. From that self-same night I've since slept, And my head has been frequent sore, And oft wak'd to do and hear; And, sure as the sun to life rises, I've been to the ball, and the play, And seen the plays, and been in the room Where they arrange for them both; And to hear is a greater pleasure Than I had, till this hour, to write. And, oh! by my mother's soul, it is Worth all the money I have in coin, To see my girl so well consider'd, As for her future suitors to try, Who, like false hares, would oft make her flee; For I have seen, on the court below, A youth of so rare a courtesy, That, like a butterfly, he did ride On the wings of fortune; in her flight, He appear'd to be as tiny as a dust-cloud, And I've seen him kiss a flower which lay On the lintel of that posy-bed, Which I will swear (if you only will), That I have seen the same that she did, For I saw the twain in her company, Twice apiece; and the first I can remember From the house-top, when they came to me, And once again just after they were gone. But tell me, dear, if you can, What now is the matter? are you mad? Or is there any truth in what I say? For, though I have never accused you, I Have always faith'd you, and have seen you both As faithful as an angel to each other, Till now I have been wondering why You have been so silent and ill-temper'd; And now I have to tell you, that I Have been thinking and thinking over The folly and folly of this light-hearted youth, And I have seen him as you never saw him, And I have seen him as you never will see him, And he will never see you, but as I have seen him, And he is a lecher, though a very angel, And I confess that it is a fearful thing For him to meet a woman who is not false, And I wish that this might be the end of him, And I feel sure it will; but, by the saints of God! I hope it may not be; but as I have said, He has been ill-nature, and I say to you, Do not give up hope, though it be half true, And if it be true, and it must be so, And you have seen him as I have seen him, In one short hour of being so to see him, Then you have seen the lover, and you have seen him, In one short hour of seeing him, you will die Of a broken heart, or else, having heard my story, Let me tell you my story. It was two years Since first he sought me out, and it was here That the first proposal of our strange love fell That a week after it was made he was dead. I had been ill, and was laid out with fever, So that my dear fellow-worker, the woman, Came to call me, and bring him with her; But when he came she told me he was dead. And this was strange, for we had been lovers, <|endoftext|> To quench the thirst of pain, and die! A wretch, to live! a prisoner to die! Sick of this world's guff and dynastic heap, And sick with a sense of hard unrequited toil, (Since, if no thanks, no privileges can be his), A slacker, he supped at last with that ill-starred throng, The de'il's indian-born, and--choom to the gallows-neck! Not till the nation had wuz hammered, And Hoover died, did he discover What true-hearted men had said About honest Bonaparte; And how a parliament of bloody loins Had lisped his name in jest, And once, on a well-thumbed roster, Seemed resolved to bring him low! He tumbled in. But his health, I fear, Is ez roarin'! for sure he felt The end come suddenly, As tho' his stone had some couple there, A-cracklin' him in humor! For, ere three months Had'nt run, The Kaiser 'ad gotten good Opinions o' the idea, So, not to alarm the parrot's ear Which ever loved a slight, The Kaiser telegraphed his hearty vote For leveling measures all around; And Hoover, who would have been the first To mug England's monied lords Had he his choice, and his chance, Gave his rather petulant air, And instantly went to sleep! When Hoover woke, he found himself restored To just his former altitude; And that no bullets had been mailed He figured there and then; For the Kaiser had sent word that he might Have it his own way Though Hoover didn't see how he could own A parcel of untouchable bullets, 'N' so he telegraphed his resignation. "You can keep the stone! I'll take the gun!" "Ere once again I pull the trigger You'll see your Grenadier-general Hooted down like a rented mare! For it's all the same to me, Since on Kaiser-begovic sent Such menacing things to me! You may keep the stone!" "O God of Bacon! Your rib-eye is so fine, That I sometimes think That you have something of thater Which, when Francis Drake was fool, I promised to impart; If you have it, God shield the land From what I foolishly meant!" "I will tell you truly, What I meant was--well, let's just say It was this:-- I meant that you were very fine a man, And, by extension, so were England; And that, because of your high renown, Your Majesty might know of it, And that, besides, the Kaiser's mind Was trained, as was evidently true, That monarchs--or at least such was my thought-- Are fond of knowing what their subjects think. So, as I said before, I sought the spot Where my Majesty was informed. If you will come with me I'll give you a thrice reward!" "And I was busy with that While the Kaiser played fool, So that I knew not of his bolt Until it was too late. But you'll bet that, once I saw What the bullet was made for, My feelings were all upset And I wept hot tears all day. To do something, anything To save England from its doom, And I wanted to die! "You see, the thing was this: The bad words, and the bad dreams That had long conspired To bring sorrow and shame Unto my native land By this spurious man Were brought together and held head high By this great cause of ours. So that, when I rose up at night To follow you, where'er you led, I felt in my heart, at least, That my country had not lost A rival for the world; But, oh! how I feared that she Was only faltering! "In the camp it often is so! The highest places always go To the most valorous and the best-equipped: For the skill that heroes learn Is often more highly developed Than that of the cat-folk; And it is particularly so Where fires are frequent and hot, And where petrol is readily at hand. The Centaur is no worse or worse Than any other machine: You may set it up and it will go, Though it may have been made specially To go on tall cliffs or steep pitches, Or where the road is steep and the ground is often broken. "But, trust me, boy, You will never find A more affable machine Or one that is more steady or quicker; And, after all these years, You will meet with no one so good, Or so kind, or so kind to the poor!" "Well, thank you, Madam," Says Johnson, with a smile, "But I never said I'd be one; And, if you choose, I'm sorry you won't Though I know it's hard to be beaten. But there's a man who owns a hotel And who can get you sometimes guests, And he's a kind man and I'm a fool, And--here I make an unkind oath-- The two poor old men that you mention, They were always affable as horses." "You may talk of hotels, Mr. Johnson," says Drake, "But there are millions of people in this country Who have money enough to spend <|endoftext|> To mingle with the blushes of his youth. Though woman's life should have been his tomb, The brave man's life should have had a portion too; And he who ne'er deigned for earthly love To scorned, or withered for lack of mind, Would have received, in form of words, the same That women's hearts must feel, when they defy Man's pride and law, to ask for what they want. Then the songs, and dances, and the joyous cry, Would have been kept, not for naught, but for his sake. Then the morning pages, the stories of the day, Would have been written for no reason why, But for joy of doing something for him. So from my youth has long been my belief, That in all good deeds the undue name Of man hath haply been forgotten good. And now, to-day, with joyful heart I write For naught but for the love of him I love, To put from memory, for naught but for him. Ecco yclepum sidera nostro: Vivamus, vivere, meum meum vivamus. Cum omnia dicamus esse vidi. Illa nihil aliud quisquam habebat, Nec me videt haec aevi. Sed hoc etiam sidera nostro, Sed hoc etiam vivamus esse vidi. Ecce suo, meum sidera nostro, Ecce suo, vivamus esse vidi. Sed hoc etiam sidera nostro, Sed hoc etiam vivamus esse vidi. The most easy way is the best way, If it's properly going to get you to Heaven. So sing, sweet and easy, And when you're getting pretty good, We'll go and live in Chaucer and Chastelard. We'll do our own seeing, Which is as it should be; We'll go and do it ourselves To save the world from Chastelard. Then, sweet and easy, We'll go and live in Chaucer and Chastelard. I knew a man, an' a wife, Whar finger-bow'r teas'd owre her e'e; An' she lay owre a reth'able bed, An' let te 'hersel' lie. I knaw the cause 'at all lay in 'er. It was, as I 'ave heerd, te be sich. I knaw an' hid sich in 'er; I knaw an' hid sich in 'er e'e; I lay wi' 'er in a reth'able bed, An' let 'er lie. O fast it ran, too, as 'ere's the case, There was no keepin' it secret at all, It 'ud gi'e the padres in a rage, It 'ud gi'e the friars in a fury. I didn't hev a word to say, I didn't hev a step to stand, So I just got up an' leave 'er there. I knaw an' hid sich in 'er; I knaw an' hid sich in 'er e'e. Te rise, he 'as got 'er at last, Te get her 'erelf an' away; They've take 'er in an' lock 'er up, An' take an' lock sich a sly corner. I tried an' tried in vain te keep 'er close; It was all in vain te keep 'er hid. I'd a few coves come back, I'd a few coves come back; An' git 'er, when I got 'er, I did, 'Cause I was lookin' te be done. I had to flee, 'cause 'er ran away, Te flee, 'cause 'er ran away; She 'ur runnin' te be'ind, 'er 'ur runnin' te be'ind, An' I wouldn't hide her from the sun. She had a sweet ole fashion, A sweet ole fashion, Te keep te clean, an' bake te pease; She kept te clean, an' bake te pease, Te make te red, an' green, an' blue. I was wantin' o' a wife, I was wantin' o' a wife; But she lay so sweet an' fair, Te never see her wuth mule. I had to run an' hide my face, I had to run an' hide my face; I'd a luggit a bit o' plesance, I'd a luggit a bit o' plesance; An' t' worl' o' 'er she never did care, She never 'ed te see me weep. She could te take me, an' she could te take me, She could te take me, an' she could te take me, She couldn't te spare te hide me; An' then at last I thought she'd love me, An' then at last I thought she'd love me; Te stan' upon her lugs, an' stan' upon her lugs, An' fought an' struggled te hide me. Theer's a little brown an' brown an' brown, A little brown an' brown an' brown; An' if you te hev a girl, theer's a liddle better To marry a little brown an' brown an' brown. <|endoftext|> In thy charge, they do no longer dare to fly, But, like tame beasts, are quite beaten when they fear, For oft at thy approach they shrink before thy power. And so, my youth, be still, and ever seek to know More of this wonder, how the Lusian realms Are ruled, and ruled by whom they please, And what supernals might be theirs at will, Whose spirits would fain be gods, whose wishes are Not what their worth but what their bravery is. By strange and lonely pathways, In a dismal valley, They dwell, with whom none hath honour. With the sun they have no share, Nor the moon gives them a rest, But all night long in the daytime They groan with fright. And I ask, and I ask in vain If my prayer have aught of avail, If I shall gain one breath Of hope from this struggle. O my Jesus, my Saviour, my life, O my life make me fight on in Thy truth, With a stout heart and a steadfast step, Until I win to the other shore, Until the battle is won, Until the battle is won. Out of doors, in a dismal valley, They live, with whom none hath renown. Out of doors, in the dismal valley, They eat, and drink, and take their fill, And they know no other hunger. But I ask, and I ask again in vain, Have I aught of glory to give the dead, Or the living, for their hunger to slake, If I seek nought else but Thee, O Lord. And I ask, and I ask again, Have I aught of victory to win with these, Or should I return on my sad way, Wearing a smile on my face, Who am not ashamed to confess That my heart is missing Thou, Who art all, and was, the God to stand By the doors where I stood waiting? O Jesus, O Saviour, O Lord of life, Help me till I see Thee, Until I see Thee, and tell me in loud cries, If my hunger and thirst are all in vain, Or are they all in vain and vain for Thee. Thou art the light of the skies. And thy splendour is so great, So for our eyes it is meet, We must behold it from far. But yet in our hearts of fear, We may not forsake it, But, with faith and with hope, We can bear its light, Nor take it away with our prayer. Through the day and through the night Still, still by the candle's light, We tread its way around, And its track is our way around, When, all unwearied, Our watch we keep. We watch till the rosy light Gives to our work its only light That it is day. And, all the long night through, When the clock struck ten, We could see the sun rise in it, In its glassy beam. We have a watch, and it is summer, All day, all night, for bread, To eat, and to drink, and to sleep, In the house of God. So it is summer, so it is ours; It is ours in our inmost hearts; 'Tis ours in the dusty room, 'Tis ours in the shadowy sky, 'Tis ours all over the earth. O Lord, the heavens are thine, And all that is done in them, And all that is spoken of them. The wheel in the heaven runs true; Lord, keep the hearts of men true. We are true hands to grasp the wheat, And true voices to bid men rejoice, But shadows cast across us, And winds against us, Like a proof of the old law still. He is risen, he is risen! The river flows ruddy. With tints of bronze the leaves flash pale, And all the skies are gold, And the wind flies raucous, Like a trumpet-note; And the world is changed, I wis, In a day. The lake is bright with frosty spray, The tree-tops flame fernily, The wind blows peevishly, Like a knocking tooth. All day, in the sun's eye, Like a great stone to touch, A man works out the night, In a day. The giant, sightless, handless hands That bury men, that seize, To mangle, and tear, and crush, The blameless, beloved child, From sun to sun, But leaves his head, his life, behind Like a stone in the flood. Is come the night to shut us in, Since down in the world The giant, sightless, handless hands That bury men, that seize, To mangle, and tear, and crush, The blameless, beloved child, From sun to sun, But leaves his head, his life, behind Like a stone in the flood. And in this room I lean and hear, In this small room, The sound of the river making sweet Its peace to the woods below, Whose peace is like the song of the bird In the windy leaves, Making sweet its solitary way, To the wood's love. O wind of the western sea, Break through the storm, And blow the music out of the dark, Until the stars stand straight in the sky, Until they shine With radiance like a diamond crown, For the love of a girl who has gone Away. What care we for the human dead <|endoftext|> There lies a dead man, his shroud to allay the fire of their envy, Yet none believe the tale, not even the living, and a little child Knows the truth, and lingers there in the icy air, and knows The spot by the smell of the earth and the rain of the clouds. In that land they do not worship, with brazen vessels and strange Oracles, the Gods of their fathers, but have learned One worship, and that is love, and the secret of death. The dead man is loved, but he who is sleeping beneath his bones Is hated and feared, for he haunts the paths and the walks of men And now that I am come to the place of the dead I have kneeled And kissed the dust, and gone on my way ashamed and as I should To join the multitude of the living dead, I go sad and slow. Yet none have seen me, and I come and gossip and moan and weep In the land of the shadows, and no one knows that I exist. I do not envy the dead man, for I do not know if I Should envy myself, so very little do I know of another When I have left my body, and no longer am a part of it, And only when the dust falls on me and I hear the rain, And the pale blue sky is tinged with red, and I start from my sleep Do I think of the dead, for I do not think of the living Who wander in life with their eyes ever on the horizon Toward the goal of their migrating, and no one knows of their dwelling, And no one has heard their voice, and they wander in fear and Pain, and cannot speak, and no one sees them no more? And now I have crossed the threshold of the porch, And there is a door there, no larger than a cockatoo's bill, And when I open the door there falls, And falls, Upon the doorstep, A fairy-lit faldstool carved from a single block of stone. On it the Dead God stands, and makes a sound like a feller-frag. He is very pleased with himself, and says, "The horse is mine, The wood is dry, I move it now in the twilight, And I sit on it in the sun, And I ride forth upon the tide, And I pluck the roses of the earth, And I cast them on the waterside, And I break them before the gates of the dead." He has done all this, and more, For he is very strong, And he makes a motion with his hand, as if to lift up the god And set him upon his altars, but I stand between them, And the wind stirs the screen of the screen, For the dead and the living have been fooling us, And the Dead God is a slippery god to handle. "How are the children? I have given them a portion of all my knowledge. There is nothing that I do not know. I know the number of the grains of sand on the shores of the sea, The number of the stars, the shining of the moon and sun, The number of the ships that pass over the moon in the night, The number of the birds on the trees, and the crows cawing on the towers; I know the ripples on the brooklet, the wind in the thawing river, The number of the sons of men, and the cities with their mighty walls." Now that I am come to the place of the dead, And I know the book of the dead, I shall know the truth and the falsehood That is writ there beneath the soil. I shall know the hosts of the dead that have gone down to the land of the dead, And those that are yet bereaved. And those that are here shall go down with me, And we shall draw the steadily deepening curtains of the open grave, The earth still shakes, And the green hills all round, As they will shake again soon; The years and the minutes tumble, That hide the secret still, Of the long, long, drawn-out agony Of the eternal blossomings. And I go on, till I stand by the grave of the unknown dead, For there are no secrets there. So that the years that have gone before Shall not be lost as a flower-ring Buried in the earth and forgotten there, But their anguish and their tears shall be A medicine that shall heal the land, And a part and a prelude of the flowering Of the flowers that shall spring from the grave. He woke in the dawn and the sun Rose up in a cloud that was split To a whiter whiter vapor. He rose and he went to the door, But the sun was gone, and the sky Was strung with strata, and he knew That the day was all made and done And the world was done for a garment. The white world was strung with white, The black world with black, And a seed of flame Was in each whited eye, And a red seed in each eye, Red as the rind of a flower, Red as a rose. A rue is not a planet; It is a planet, and But a seed of flame, And a seed of red, Red as a rose. A simple seed of flame That shall grow to a flame That shall grow to a rose. He saw the seed in the eye of the cloud, The seed of a red rose, In the whited eye of the sky, Red as the rind of a flower. He took a flower of purple and red, <|endoftext|> Shows the odorous splendor of the flowering clod; While the yellow corn before them breaks its bands, Forwards, and spills its shining ears upon the plain. Then the maiden maiden, blooming on the plain, Chants her mournful song and mocks the harvest boy. The corn is gathered, and its husks are weighed; And a gleaming golden caldron, marked with Roman gold, Is brought from Rome, where it was wrought by ancient art; In its center floats a basket, wrought with grief and care, On which is placed a piece of purple wreath in frame; And on its top, before the magistrate's eyes, Appears a vase, whose neck and branches boast a flowery jaw. The corn is weighed, and all is duly claimed and paid; The magistrate blesses the heavy offerings on the ground; And now, to mark the assignation of the grape, A steed is brought with purple tail and ears of corn; Palsied with his purple, trembling rider trails the plain; And in his heart the envy of the crowded stalls Burns with dark fires, and with a scornful scorn he scorns. Where now the tame and grass-bred race? Where the stallions fierce? Where now the race of goat? Ah, no more in chariot race, Or in the fierce race for horses bloody, or on foot, Or at slow gallop, swift as thought, man leads the stretch. Heeds not the spur that eagerly devours the fly? Obedient to a parent's word, the rider flies, Unmindful of the voice of scandal and of moan, That, through the chace, rings out from the pursuing pair. With eyes cast down and with a lowering crest, The courser flies along the dusty way; He passes on, nor heeds the beating of his heart; He hears not the squeak of leather, nor the loud cries; Nor sees he clearly the blind man's dimly beaming face; Nor sees he clearly the other's face that meets his eyes, Nor the crowd that fast follows, nor the distant pace. By a low hilly district bank he came to stand On a long plain, where grass was growing green; And he saw, far in the distance, and behind, In the hot sunlight, two steeds that came and went. But he hardly noticed these, or the way The breeze played round and about their manes, Till two white brows, and a white crested hat, Alone defended their valor and their age. And they two alone, like two brave knights, To a hushful distance, unheeded, sped; And he scarce noticed their white wings that showed, Till a loud shout afar, a horseman cried, That shook the earth beneath his hoofs so lightly, And the two horses, floundering, scattered from the course, And they trotted down the hillside in the rear. He saw them, but he saw them not alone; The shout was heard, the horses flew, the crowd advanced, And the black coats rose and fell, and cries and cries, Of men and women, smote upon his ear. He felt the sharp breath of the many men, He heard the clash of swords, the trampling of the beaten, He saw the wounded stagger and sink and die, And felt the bitter root of death tighten its hold. With a loud roar that rent the heavens above, A dark mass rushes down the mountain's side, As if the earth had split in under-wood; Down the steep rocks and the green rocks below, As if the water in the river fell. Its darksome hoofs the swamp-beasts of the swamp Shiver as they pass, and the nymphs of the deep Are gathered in a group, and dance and play, To the echo of the horses' hoofs and stroke. The knight watched till the dragon had returned, And galloped toward the cry and cry alone; But still no knight came, and the dragon drew Up to the cliffs with a swift and vast return. And still the knight rode tired and slow, To the spot where he heard last the horseman's shout, And saw the cowering damsel twain alone. And he saw her face, and the white brows Were gazing up in amaze On that sudden brightness of peerless might, So he hastened to excuse his haste, And told the damsel all his name, And the warfare in which he had been, And the vow which he had plighted before. And the last question that he asked Was whether the vow had set him free, And he pressed her warm on both cheeks, But the dark brows and the quivering lips Still waited to hear the answer, and they stared Speechless, looking up in mute surprise, And he turned and saw the dusk come in. The dusk came in, and the shade, and the chill, And the splendor of the gold and the blue, In a light wind floated the golden hair, And the silent knight's face to their eyes Softened and seemed to glow with the light, And they looked on, and then they whispered In low wonder, and turned with their boards, And wrought in their cushions and made talk, Till all was quiet again. And the silent hour had gone by so, And the hill-wind and the rustling trees, And the stars began to blink in the west, And the light wind died down again, When the quiet damsel arose and spoke, And her voice was low and clear as a bell, <|endoftext|> Blind to the deed, that fain would work More mischief with a better name? The world shall learn his scarlet name, His lost bequest shall in pride Glitter above his altar-stone." "More harm thou canst not with the same Fan the flames of wrath, and turn the sword On thy own flesh; nor should the queen Henceforth need thine assistance, since She reigns alone; but thou, who now Leadest a royal city and command The loftiest towers, must lead thy armies forth, And bid them gather round the walls of Rome; Else may they hurl her down the deep, And at her head this mountain cross endure. "He heard; at once th' effulgent rays Forsook his body; 'twas as the flame Dies from flint, or lightning from a cloud: And yet more fierce and terrible His crimson eyes, through fury, throw A fearful glare upon the day. Grimly he spoke, as though the day Died with his lips; then drew his sword, And fixed it firmth on his haughty head; Roused was the earth beneath his tread. "Sore vengeful was his look, and said (Unutterable deference showing To her who lorded there in state): "Queen, what would'st thou now? what can I say? What should my thoughts or words avail? So would I show thee, if I could, What no one else could witness bear; My sole desire were, that with mine eyes Thou could'st behold the carnage, and thyself Have part and portion of the spoil. "Foul is the deed, if unlawful, Undo thou, who bidd'st me destroy Thy host; foul the sin, if hateful, If it be stolen from other men. Still was thy mother christened queen, And in thy throne and royal state Thou was'st enthroned before thy sire: Thy right and sovereign place is thine, Thy glory is the same, whether crowned With pomp, with trophy, or with trophy-royal; "But here thy pomp is lost; and thou, Subject and servant of their pride, Art dusted with the dust and bugle-horn, And now with slaughter and with shame Doo appear before thine honied lord, To whom thou camest as a maiden shy, To make thy life more cheaply thine. "Hence have I brought thee, the forgetful hour Overpast, to thy desires. This doom Hath many a god, and every god's thought, Discreet, wise, compassionate, reached; And they in council hold on each side Discrete and qualified deliberation. If thy sake will their bosoms smite, Even for these, whose mercy and whose power Smote Rimedon, and gave him a right gage, The meanest of their mangled folk to swing (For they were mean) they would not change their part, Nor with their slaughter spread wide hell's gulf wide. "They would not, for their murderers sake; Nor, for the blood of murderers wrung, Would they, so much they loved, their friendship sever, Glad from the beginning, to the end, So good a friend, so true a faithful friend, Had Heaven in friendship from a child been gifted. God had not bestowed on him a friend, Or protection, or the wisdom won To keep him in the liberty he won. "But he is hateful to the wicked, To folly, imposture, and darkness, Who heeds not Fortune's rising sun, Nor thine, who heeds not night and storm, And with the wisest of mankind Himself doth yearly read his mind, To find who tempted him to do And dare the shame, though hidden he Had chanced to slip the link of covetousness, "So skulks he forth, he is indeed coward, Hiding the truth, he dare not himself make known, For whom he spies, to tempt, for whom he spies; What blushes he, what smiles, what smirches wear His "friend" among the multitude he knows, And makes his evil motives plain to all. And all the filth of sloth and debauch Lies plain to all the seeing eyes; Yet stands he sure, the secret sinning And sinless he is, his faith is sure. "But none, I find, are so standing sure, For every secret daring swain, A thousand, as sure, as any one else, Since so deep in sin he is, he dares To take upon his word the same; He drinks to such as him pray, and he Reaps such reward, that much commend he. "For, if a man his trust deserves, and lays His heart into his champion's side, The trust shall duly be repaid him; And if he fears, or fears not, to stand Obedient to his word, he shall not need To ask his seat, he shall not lodge in it; His seat is other where he doth need, There sits he safe, he doth float in air. "That place of seat no foot may hold, No hand may clasp, no mouth may greet; But there doth sit the brave, and there With guarded head doth guard the naked heart. That place of seat is sacred ground, Where use has taught the world to view The naked parts, the sorrowful parts, The parts most delicate and rare, All other parts are guilty ground, <|endoftext|> We twain am and I: not changed a whit. For she is fairer far than men be fair, Fairer than is the white star in the sky Frowning amid the blackness of the storm; Fairer than foam on the river, Fairer than is the golden brown Of summer seas benumbed with frost. And as the dew falls fast In grey eternities of light, She is fairer than the dew; Fairer than is the rose, Fairer than is the bright Silver of the moon on the stream. She is fairer than the lamp of love, Fairer than day, and more Fairer than all night. For she is love incarnate; And night is but a name For the eternal Fairy-tale of delight. There was never a night so sweet But there was always her. Her touch hath made the sadness Of many a death-darkened star; For there is magic in her eyes: They shift and wane, and like leaves Blow back the lights of their day. There was never a night so long But there was always her. Her silence kept the lightness Of tired feet at the morning gates; For there is magic in her lips: They smile and stay, and like a sail Sails out of the morning air. There was never a night so proud But there was always her. Her towers rose higher and wilder For every wonder of love; For there is magic in her breath: It is as if her life breathed fire, And smote out the stars of night. What thing so great and sweet and wise As the woman?--What?--The Eternal One, Who is spirit and flesh and blood, And both a god. What?--That other thing unknown Which is God, if God be such; If, mortal, she be divine, 'Tis she that sets our souls a-blaze. And that's the reason why I love you so, and this my song, And every thing that's in this hut; And if I were not so tired of it, And this my song, and all the things that are not, I'd lie down and die at night, And never lift up my eyes To see the stars and listen to the moon; For there she is, and there she only, And she never can be apart from me. Ay, ay, It makes no difference whether I love you or no; Whether you are lovely or unmarvellous, If you are wonderful and strange and strange; That's just in your curious way, That's just in your way of being; And if you were not so wise and strange and curious And didn't keep calling and calling, I'd rise up and beat you black and blue, And then lay down and sleep. And yet, for all that, I am going to say There's something in you that makes me love you; For strange things are in your nature, And stranger things in my nature, And we are half-again a man and a woman; And the world will see this in you, And you'll never be apart from me. "O my friend, The world is like a maze. You must wander wide To find the way. But here I stand To guide you through The maze." She sat at the motor, And toiled and sighed at the task, As she scratched a parrot, In her own, sad, childish hand. "You can do it, O my friend," she said. And yet for all she could do, There was no whole that she couldn't skramish, And though she never knew the chill Of exposure to the rail, She knew enough of muddiness, And the ugliness that's all about us, To have taken the wrong in the head A little at a time. Her hair was high and greasy, Her hands were dirty and yellow, And yet she caught the light And hid it with a glare That was almost human. She sighed, "I'm not like you," And so she left the train. And when they found her, she was afraid; They shook her till she nearly had another fit, They drenched her till she could hardly stand, And then they put her inside a car That was five carats heavier than the rest, And seventy miles an hour was jerked Upon that motor mile; And so they brought her to New York. And then she looked around her. In this dingy and terrible place A beautiful face had come to life. And though it was Sunday, To see it was to know God was not mad. Her eyes were clear, and light, and glad; And her hands were clean and white. And though they had known her somewhere Before, they could not have guessed Just how strange she was nor how strange she was. Her hands were light as air, her feet Were like a flower in the ground; And though the year was cold And many footprints lay in the snow, Like a happy child she stood. And though the children were sad She was as glad as could be, And though there were tears to begin, There were not any there to end. She saw the children, and she knew The pains they had come to grief through, And though she had known their eyes There was something else that she knew That made her smile and sing, And though the year was very cold She had brought them flowers to wear. And then the children cried for joy; <|endoftext|> Their reason and their reason's eyes, And they said to me: "You have unmoored us from our work To fare at large, And we have lost our morning's labor! We are not hired men To be the footstool of the world, And you have gone and left us here To wade in slime and suck dregs Of life like slaves." They told me the sad story, And for a time my heart would break, Because I could not a promise make To them. I have no mother now, And no father, and no brother To come back and be my brother, And take me in his arms And hold me and say: "Hush! Why do these men tease you? Are they as black as soot? Do they shout as they march? Are their black eyes like hot coals? And their faces red like cooked meat? Do they spit and snort, And howl like lions? No, they are not so black! They are not so ruined! They are not so old! They are not so old and black! They are my brothers! And I will honor them as long As I'm able, And I will honor them with my life! Why do they care if I am gay? Do they not know that I have suffered? Do they not know that I have known The pain of unrequited love? That I have walked in solitary ways And suffered the pangs of unrequited love? That I have seen the world's masters glare At me, in the empty places they gave me? That I have walked in their streets and halls, And smiled and exchanged kisses with them all, But only them could kiss my cheeks like bread. That I have been their fool, and played their game, And only them could honor me! And so I must bear it all, And bear it calmly, Because it was their custom! And so I must bear it all alone, And alone from them! And so I must bear it all alone, And bear it with a patience of pain, And a resignation as of right, And a face that is not quite my face, But a pale mask of their face I wear, So that I may see and be not seen. I hear them in the marble hall And the marble stair, And in the marble hall and the stair The voices of the dancers fall. I hear them in the closing flower beds, I hear them on the vanishing ears Of the trees in the garden there. And when I am tired I lay me down In the closed flower beds and sleep. There is no pain, there is no pain, There is only the sound of their feet, Like the sound of swans on the lake, Or of waves on a distant shore That are heard by those who have ears To hear and not hear. If I could but understand How it is that you weep, I could help you. If I could but understand How it is that you weep, I could lend a hand; I would help you, and make it seem No other cause moves you; And if I might but understand, It would seem most clear. The rain came down in a flood And the cold wind did blow, And the evergreens dropped downward, And the mist ascended, And the chrism-odors ascend, And the bitter water slaked The tender leaves, and made them sweet; And that glorious chrism began To slide down, as water slaked The thirsty lips of babies. They sang their songs, they danced, they laughed Their smiles up into the skies, And the angels heard, and they were dumb. And that glorious chrism began To slide down, as water slaked The thirsty lips of babies. And then it fell and flowed and flowed, The whole of the gift of the grace Of the great redemption; and so Their tears were dried, and their woe was gone. And the earth saw the healing begin, And from the lap of innocence The thunders of wrath were shaken down; And from the throne of majesty The thunders of wrath were shaken down. And yet I must go on. I must sing And tell of the glad, sweet Spring, And of birds and flowers that spring; Of the green leaves, and of the white And golden clusters of the blossoms; And of our good Roderick and his bride, And of the happy days that spring, Because the days are glad, and sweet, and long. Because the great, strong, ever-changing years Make all things change, and again Make all things as they were before; And every day we see a little child Standing in a sunshine, his wild hair Blown round his ears, and round his brows, And round his waist, and round his waist His dear, sweet breath is laid, And he smiles up in his mother's face, And all the world is glad, and sweet, and long. Because the ever-changing, sad, and sadder years Weep oft for the glory days, And for the days that are lost and gone; And there is none to hark to their cry, Or to warn them that they wait: And this is why the proud, good, and vain And idle days are gone, And the days grow swifter, and the sun Shines clearer, and the days grow longer, and the light Within the windows of the Night is brighter, and the Night Is wiser than the days; For what are all the rest besides? <|endoftext|> 'Twas my father's treat, When my second summer began, To make me an old-fangled cuckoo. And his pride, as he twittered there, When he twittered to the Sprites A cunning little Merry Language, For all his cuckoo business He had but a tame cuckoo, A chattering creature, A bird that piped in the trees. But one morning, when I was dressed, And fled along the yard, The naughty little cuckoo piped He piped and piped, Like any nice little mermaid I care to mention, To my poor father, on his knees, The sunbeams in his hair. "You are a pretty young thing, You may listen to me," Said the cuckoo. "You are pretty, But you're not so cuckoo. For I am cuckoo, And I make the grass grow green." I have no sons,--no daughters,-- No friends,--no wealth,--no fame, No arts,--no letters,--no beauty, None of the things that one admires; But if there be a Cuckoo Who, from April to May, By lucky chance or whim, Can make the green grass grow When others shrink as pale As if they had come up water; Who can make the blue sky shine So well that they appear Like gems a-plenty to me, Who can make the cherry-tree Blossom all the year round, Who can make the snow-peak high Tenderly fill and touch The sun so bright within, As if 'twere a lover's eyes That sought to gaze within The eyes of Cuckoos;-- Who can give to each singer An additional string, A sweetest harmony, A sweeter, loveliest song, As if each were he, The singer, the Cuckoo, Who takes to him, as he takes to me, The gifts of music and of eyes, And lets the world go by The ways of life alone. Behold, the flower-day succeeding Little notice is taken, And when April comes with roses, The webs are untied. The glowing east and the glowing west Are the familiar theme, And every cluster of the flowers Takes the place of every song. The rose of the snows and the grass Is fallen upon her, The snows and the grasses are green Upon her brow. And when the lilied brooks arise, And dances light prevail, And in the echoing grove's dark bar The wild bird's song is heard, It is the rose and the snow And the brooks and the flower-paths all That guide the way. As you sit with your love upon your knee, We know not what yearning may be; Upon the stroke of twelve we leave off thinking of anything; And when the stroke of the clock is heard, We know that the day has passed. We do not count the weary minutes, We do not strive against the tide, But leap into the stream, And the rose of hope and the red of blood In love are one. The summer is over, over, alas! The summer is over; The rose-bush falls, the woodbine flies, The wind returns; And winter cometh, and with it The wind and the rain. We know that the summer is over, And we look in the glass; We know that the rose-bush is over, The woodbine, too, and the wind; We know that winter cometh, and The wind and the rain. If I tire of you, beautiful woman, I know that I must Fate's hand be the author of my failure To find you as sweet As years of memory fondly recall All the long hours we have spent Under the trees. If years of love are past, and love is failure, If joy be hateful, and if sorrow Bring up the rear, Not a leaf in all the bleak and bald acacias Shall wave in the heat. The pines have all forgotten that time was Their gentle friend, And all the old songs have been turned to songs of hate, And all the old thoughts to crime; And time shall be no more than a rumour Among the trees. The very stars have forgotten that they once Did shine so bright; And time shall be no more than a rumour Among the trees. The birds have forgot the springtime came To seek them out; And love has become a passionate youth Among the trees. The little flowers, I know, will hold in flower The fleeting hours; And their memories of the sunlight that Filled the days And nights, will linger long among the trees. I shall not see them spring; But I shall hear them talk among the trees. The little birds that sing so well, And fill the air with music, All seem to forget that time is But a rumour among the trees. The flowers that Juned's hand may dress With scent and colour, All forget that time shall be But a rumour among the trees. If I tire of you, beautiful woman, I know that I must Fate's hand be the author of my failure To find you as sweet As years of memory fondly recall All the long hours we have spent Under the trees. If years of love are past, and love is failure, If joy be hateful, and if sorrow Bring up the rear, <|endoftext|> His middle finger points To the red sand of the sea And he prays to the fishes And to the seals. The wind, that was shivering us Long ago between the stems Of the sordid apple trees, Has blown these prayers away In the wind of the war That is singing and marching In the wind of the war. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are taking Our blood, they are taking Our women. No more Can we fight for you. No more can we save you Save yourselves, save others, Save lands, oceans, countries, Save generations, save Our great grand-children and great great grand-children, Save those that are now unborn. The wind of the war, Of the wind of the war, In the stormy night time, Chills and tears and scorches All the tree and flower, Save only a handful, Save only a single flower, Save only a sprig or two, Save only a couple of bushes Only a single plum-tree, Or a pair of old beaten boots. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are taking Our blood, they are taking Our women, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. One is enough. It is enough. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. O love, they are taking Our boys, they are taking Our girls, they are burning All the springs, all the fountains, All the wells. There are tears in my eyes, There are tears in my eyes. I have waited so long, I am so weary and worn out with waiting, That I have cried out aloud to God; And He heard them and answered me. He gave me courage, strength and wisdom, He raised me above myself, He filled my heart with hope and promise, He strengthened my arm to fight. Now I kneel before Him again, Before the Holy One above, Who made me a prophet to preach good news to the poor. Where is now the hand of the runner Who set out on this lonely journey, In the far-off dim and distant days, When the shadow of arms and war-clans Had spread a dim, black shadow over all? I know that no home is there for us, But a wilderness of death and sorrow; But a strange light shines out where the shadows are. I saw the dawn-star in a glittering bright, I heard the songs of the tiny hunter, I spied the weak, red blossom of morn Pressed hard against the old green mail. I shall follow that light and track its splendour, And give back the song that I heard, Or give my life up to the brave soldiery, And die, because I have lived, in the trouble and strife of the world. Oh, I have seen the dawn-star in a glistering silver light, I have heard the song of the tiny hunter, I have spied the red blossom of morn Pressed hard against the old green mail. Oh, I shall follow that light and track its splendour, For I am not afraid of the shadows of war; For I know that no home is there for us, But a wilderness of death and sorrow; But I know that there is a home for the brave soldiery When I was still a boy in the cabin, I saw a wondrous star shoot over, And a rabbit from the forest ran. I gathered up the rabbit in my hand And carried it as far as I could To show all my friends and fellows; They all thought it was a beautiful rabbit, But they couldn't find it anywhere. When I was already a young man, I met the bravest man that ever you saw; His name was Jolly Jim, and he was made of plums; He was so bold, and such a smart guy, He carried the biggest bush of all I know. He went to war, and he brought home the rabbit As proud as a warrior might do, And now here he is grown to be a mighty man, And he eats goose with his friends every day. I saw a little, pimple-faced bumble bee, And he shook the dewdrops from his wing, And he said, "Dear me! There is a dear little butterfly Is flying over to see about." And it seems to me the butterfly Is the same as my girl, For she's flying over to see about. When the sick man lies awake in the night, And sees the stars in the sky, And hears the little birds in the trees, And feels the grasses under his feet; When he hears the wind in the trees, And sees the stars in the sky, And feels the wind in his hair, And hears the birds in the trees, Then he knows it is Christmas Eve. When the little children wish for toys And the children bring them on Christmas night; When the little children pray for things To put into the toys they make; When the little children sing for joy On Christmas night, in their sin, When the little children pray for joy In their sin, as they lie From all the sorrows of life I pray, <|endoftext|> Took each a pair of wide-rolled cloaks Woven by Paquius' self in Cremona. And of these, the fine artist chose the best, And these he presented, all in order due, To Augustus; and on either side his friends All stepped forward and took their seats. Then he Rose, and after him his captains in their haste Descending, all presented their persons forthwith. Thenceforth were held the venerable sires' debates In public, with the common people gathered round. Now that Augustus had from the table risen, All cast their eyes upon the prince, and then Marked too the gracious crowd of friends that came To greet him. Not a wealthy knight, or one Praised in song, or by tradition sanctified, Or one who long in Rhodes' old house had done Homage, was idle, but arose and took his place Among the princes and the senators of the land. Some pressed about him in their hurry to embrace Their lord, some went up and down among the throng, Praying and praising. Little could they have known That, when these parted, not for ever, but for just Like to a well-oar in a sea-beat shoreward made By agile rowers who reel not nor can repent, Untired, the chariot rolled on. But when they saw Their master rising, all the young men stopped And would have clustered about him, but he passed By, unheeding. Then among them Pavel went, Brave son of Pavlos, and Alkino followed, And all the people flocked about the two To greet them, and the coursers glided homeward, For now was noon and the cool day was dying. And it was then that in the royal palace They made them ready for the banquet, and all That was required they performed. And at dawn The coursers came and brought the princes home, Grateful for their sojourn in Scyros; and at last All sat themselves down, and feasted until the wine Had thoroughly warmed them. Then arose the saying "Brother, what wishes may in us exist, what plans Are there within our minds, since one and all of us Has reached his native land and is safely living? Is there no one among us, nor no man nears His goal, who would have come here and is still Longing for his return? Are there no faithful wings Here trailing somewhere above, who will bear this man Back to his country and his friends? Alas! alas! How many of us shall perish in the sea Of Greekish seas, or in the desert, or wend To Carian Orchomenus and Lacedaemon? Alas! alas! For us shall be no summer-time, No gathering in the fruits, no making merry, No gathering in the branches and dropping o'er Into the purple waters of the marshy meads; No icy streams and no clear sun and no rill, But some far other desert and far worse torment, Horrid to tell, and broken hearts and bitter groans." So spake the prince among the nobles; but in truth No voice was there, no echo in the hall, To tell his grief, no voice of all to hear Who sat with him. And it seemed to him Avenging blow and woful blow. For he saw All the fair company of dames and knights Come ever to the banquet and depart, By threats and tears, till he grew mad with pain And thought of Scyros' strait narrow banks and towers And those most cruel men; and then indeed He smote himself, for that most fell man he had been, Wasting the life of others for his own shame. But yet a little space he stood, with head held high, Nor ever touched he with his hand the fair arm Of fair Doralice; but all the while his eyes Were on her face, and there he stayed, enthralled by her grace, Till his heart bled forth its sorrow: and the night Fell on him, and the painful thoughts of home and woes, And all the cares of these long days of wandering. And at the last he turned him from the sight, and wept, And tears ran down his trembling cheeks. Then the lady took him by the hand, And, smiling, spake unto him: "Nay, do not weep; Take hold of these hands, and kiss her feet, and rest Thy weary head upon her bosom; and so Go down in peace, and tell thy sorrow all In words that seemliest; and if any word seem sweet, Perhaps she will let it be her name. Farewell! Farewell, and may heaven bestow her happiness Upon thee!" And all the folk, rejoicing, wept. And straightway all the folk laid him in the silken hall Upon a soft bed, and gave him of the best And fairest cup-bearer's wine that was there, And stilled the tears in all his eyes, and made The heavy sorrow in his heart to cease. For all that day and all that night, by dream and bane, The heavy thoughts of Scylla haunted his soul, And she his sister, calling ever in his mind The name of his own beloved sister, wailed and spake Such words as hold a joy no mortal man may tell; And all the while her hands were clasped round his neck In love's embrace. And at the last she stood With eyes beseeching, and her arms enfolding, and she said: <|endoftext|> But with a wide-branch'd bough of hemlock, which might be seen His leafy path through the forest: for all along It grew as lofty as the tallest trees On Ilium, and of strength surpassing all That breed therein: no strength, however, may aspire That leafy height, or can aspire above, Though with unfaltering root it holdeth firm. Their chirping noise the little birds thus met; For everywhere, about their park, and frith, In open fields and woody places, there they meet. These sung their fun'ral chants, and then would sing Their later sacred songs, whose pleasant sound Refulgent heaven re-echoed, and the hills; Whose hues of flower, and blushes, red and white, Surveyed o'er all the pleasant vales and groves. The youthful heifer, viewless as the air, That marks the passing cloud, and marks the sunset-cloud, Marks in this self-same place her careful lord, And from her neighbour springs, to show her love. The graffs with kisses these bewitched appear, As girdling woods with pretty vines unite. The naked brown fields the fatted sheep adorn, And bleating goats from bush and brake draw near. Here from the noble heifer the plaintive dove She chuckles last to Heaven, and there the solemn bee A stolen murmur makes, and buries in the ground The hollow-sounding clangor of her honey-roof. Ah! when of these the wise Laertes knows, Nor all his wits, nor all his wit at boast, Nor more than all the rest can Stanford give; Who then, for love of this, shall dare at home The perilous task, to cipher out a verse, The daring rhyme, yet unpronounce'd, or read So as even to convulse the metrical rule? A little plant, of maidenhair deemed In Parian marble, fair Inessa was: Who, in a marble chapel, made her up, On woollen pads, a modest nun to wear. A marble chapel, in this very town (Boreas in its halls), adorned withall, Naught of Basilica or of Palatine. Now every morning, that from mountain-height You hear the town rang'd with music loud, As if the neighbouring streams exuberant sing, And that the distance hills expand, as they By connected waters join new-found flood, From some small fountain 'tis in fact contain'd: And round about the spot so oft we saw The naked daffodils and lilies blow. There stood a little aloe-palace high Upon two proud and pedimental plinths, Plac'd both with different colours, white and red: A curious porch, where nightly we forget The weary labour of our solitary lot, And pass the glad season in the talk of friends, Where Life seems sweeter by its absence made. At matins on a Friday the active Dean Walk'd with his self-importance down the aisle, Loved by the small circle of subscribers there: His sermons next day went over better, His people had but less sympathy. His bad anecdotes often shar'd our ear, His glib remarks at times bothered our ear. At times his talk was like the vulgar herd, Of cheerful routine and of name; We laugh'd at a joke that land-ladies tell, We found the scheme of his talk absurd. His digressions wander'd on without end, His schemes of place and of popularity. Our hearts remember his kind bearing, His friendly confidence, his courtesy; His stories of our native land remain With deep impressions, long retain'd in thought; We praise his courage, when we should praise His knowledge, speaking of his knowledge. Our fancy is taken with his gown of green, His emphasis of feeling by no means rare, His comments on manners, or on wives; His scorn of a vague superstition flies, We admire his candour, when we should admire His learning, speaking of his learning. He brought to our notice, in our noticing change, A change necessary to the many men Of what is call'd wealth; the common people he talks With us, if we are wise, he laughs with us, too; And now the critic on our folly thinks: The times are alter'd, we ill reserve the praise. My dear mother, in these days when people scoff At tastes that are more luxurious than Royal, Or at the Fringe, or at a trifling twopenny toll, Which tolls the capital, and circulates all over Europe, To see a well-meaning fool to blind derision turn, Who with a zeal unfeeling that to wealth expends, For pleasures which, and for externals which secures, Makes against the public weal his whole intent, Makes against the public weal his whole intent; And then my dear mother, we, who by his own Should know him, and from his country have become (So should our party he), blind derision prove That calls him to the scene, that calls him to the scene, From all the praise a field, where, as is well known, He wins and manages, though by Winds without a withstand, At home, abroad, his head, his heart, his mind; The party friend of public good or public wrong, With thoughts like his, and such as his, we shun. Let us then make it a rule, that when we praise Some poor man who acts nobly, or modestly; <|endoftext|> And he who, when on this side of death, For lovers' sake should pray and sigh, He shall not see nor hear. The world, and we who mourn and thrive, Our hearts have gathered in a knot, And like to soldiers camp we are, For if we break, no one checks us now. And so with hearts so linked together We tread the dark and stormy way Where Death, with words of light and laughter, Brings no one back to tell the tale. The old world's changed, and young men leave Their cottages for a straw-crowned throne; The white women leave their haunts of wood, To dance with great strong men at a shawl-edged table. The sea-kings walk the decks of ships, And the old wives walk the decks of ships. I watch the passing ships, for I am fair, The long-ships, and the little trading-ships, That shake and shiver at the wind's breath; And how the sweet sea-gulls follow them, And hide themselves in nooks to spy them, And wait till they shall know them well. Yet who are he? He who has seen them And known the great wide sea, and slept Upon the height of air, a wan moon-light Gleam in his darkness, and has left his land And climbed and run upon the wind's breath? I wot not. All that I can I say That men have known and known so long ago, I am so much apart, so much apart From men and their laughter, men and their tears, That I am ashamed that I am not whole. She lived upon the river-side With her poor, sickly children six; She died and she was very poor, And she was kind to all of them. "Let us build a place to lay our bones, And we will rule our lives from hence!" Thus the poor woman spoke, and so They built a place to lay their bones, And ruled for her, and they ruled for them, For they had -- what? A paltry pay? No money at all to buy a dog, Or to afford a single shilling To keep her litter of poor little things Who slept upon the bank every night, And went to sleep again. So they ruled for her, and she had died By now, but theirselves were kings and queens, And, smiling down upon her, said: "When you are dying, then our lot is cast: The litter of the Liar is now four, And we are three." When all the others strove to slay him, And to outrace his hands and feet, And to outwit his cunning, They could not overtake his thought and ways, He was the Devil incarnate. And one day as he sat alone at noon Watching the sun go down the west, And seeing his kingdom come and go, And all his thoughts as well, and wondered If all his marbles were a dream, A beggar came into the sun -- ah, good God! There were seven kings in all the world, And each one had a seven-branched fork, And he held them all so tenderly That one would not let the other have it. "I am the King of Seven Deadly Sins, I have no pity, no remorse," he said; "I am the King of Seven Deadly Sins, And I am Good News, and I have no sin." They stood in the sun so long we did behold Their beautiful, rosy red nails, redder still Than the new blood they drew from the veins Of the seven little kine that lifted their eyes When the milkmaid from the hill was gone. Seven little kine! Ah, we are not enough To satiate the hunger of a seven-headed king; Seven little kine! Oh, the children of seven! Ah, they were not even children of six! There were seven baskets, seven hats, and seven kettles, And seven cards, and seven combs, and seven knives, Seven babies in each basket, seven babies in each hat, Seven babies in each kettle, and seven more in each tooth, Seven more in each lamp, and seven more in each cradle. Oh, the little ones! They have taken all their toys For the sake of the seven babies so fat. "Seven more baskets!" said the fat one; "Seven more kettles!" was the rejoinder of the others. "Seven more baskets!" the king laughs till his sides ache. "Seven more kettles!" howl the hungry kine. "Seven more baskets! Seven more kettles!" they cry. And the little fellow thinks he is a king, Just because his seven brothers and sisters are all Laughing or crying, or fighting or sleeping, as we do. Seven babies in each basket, seven babies in each pot, Seven more in each lamp, and seven more in each cradle. "What good fortune to me!" the little fellow cried, As he climbed into his green carriage and driver, With his new wooden wheels, made of red clay, Cut from a hollowed granite boulder, With his basket on his shoulder and his wheels, Moving down the grass-grown road, sing-song-songs, Through the pleasant summer morning. "What good fortune to me!" he cried, as down he sate Upon his seat in exultation and jest, With a grin upon his pale, pale face, Thinking how he would call the angels on us -- <|endoftext|> "Ask no more, ask no more, of this craze, O love, It is an era! Love, thro' this day Our hearts have been true, 'twas best for us; We'll never rebel now, the hour Calls for this requiem; we do but wait The sullen farewell that death doth bring. "Come, Ginevra, thou shalt see our town And the chaste hearth where Kvdbeth prevailed, Our warriors like the lightning blaze Around thee, and in warlike song, Our shrines retain the honours of the past; Come, and we'll greet thee, and joyously Bless thee and beautify thee among us all. "A kingdom for my sire and for my son, The fairest and best of Saxon lands, That is mine by right of conquest won, And henceforth reigns I, but let it yield Life to me, glorious, with the noblest kingly crown." But Ginevra, she hath no faith in hopes Of kings: "Is this the faith?" she saith. "My king, Ride forth, I pray thee. The hour calls for us to dance." Scarce had she said, ere Garforth, by her side, Lifted his stick, and with the gleaming blade Downward struck her. Oh, so gently she Stepped to the ground, and straight before his face, That, all unaware, he unwittingly gave mark Of her ere she had turned; the while her head Was lightly stooped, that look she gave to him. Ah, what a feigned sweet surprise! Sweet as the breath Of blowing flowers that in the violets blow Is the low whisper of the one that meets The eye of morning on the world's new verge. Yet the mild eyes had known, and had believed Such a reproach could never reach their realm: Nay, had it not been for Heaven, who will not shun The hoariest of dangers, and the keenest of pangs. Garforth spake: "I never loved thee, maiden, mad, Nor thought but to pursue thee, scorned the blows: Mine was a courage cold, to strive with men In such a cause, and slay in its defence A maid so fair, to whom I held no fear. But I have heard the wiles and wiles of man; And now, methinks, that this was well foretold, That I should love, when I loved not, as a fool! "And thou hast known enough of love to love: To love and not to know the what, is hell: And what thou hast not known, will Ginevra tell By the false garland she hath wound about thy head. I loved not, not for love, but because thou art My sister; and a sister may be loved Without the hope of it, at most with love, But never with a belief, or dream, or pledge. "Of this I judge, that thou art blind indeed, Or thou wouldst feign, to save thy father's pride: And what so fickle may excuse man's crime, His fawning vanity, or the rude spoil The torrents left on his gulph when they were drowned By the unlevelled axles of their upward way? I had not judged thee, if I had not known, By the soft flash where thy true love does shine, That this were love, though in the bottom found Not love, but fraud, and baseness of hearts the worst. "And now I judge that thou shalt rue it hence: Man's life shall not be valued by the life His lips have lavished on a female monster, Nor his death, nor his passion, for a title, But by some act, some word, by some unmeasured word, By the love he gives or looses, if not known, Some word written in light upon his face, Or by the unmeasured glance if met in sight, Which two have found, or two such as pass by." He glanced at her, holding his hardened visage So straight, and fixed with pride too proud to ache, As the tall pines that head Wallenrod's grove. "Or, if it be I did with guilt unite, Judge not a devil at heart could tear me so; Mine is the only sin, mine the sole crime For which this skull, to-day this skull with me, Shall righteous heathen fates recall back; My is the heart that murder bideth and sin." And young Arthur touched him with his hand; "Thy sentence," said he, "is avenged in me Even as the judgment of my peers; and here Whence came they? where are they gone? what is Their road? The old sword lifts, as it must, For Arthur's cause, though in that cause it win What cannot be to Arthur without shame, Its master, and his cause, its due reward. "And let them gain it; I can but wish them grace, The victory is my lord, the war my will. What needs I more?" Then, mounting his horse once more, he rode, And, as the olden proverb tells, outrides The guest and treads his hall. But few were then the people that met In Arthur's garden or his meadow green; But every morn his choicest cheer Made merry in the garden and made merry where The plough in flower-plucked fields was strown. The foolish hermit was the first to say That what was fitter was; that knights were they Who lived amid the quieter life, and dwelt More quietly by man's hearth fire: And many a face was seen that marvelled To find a man so well clad and miened, And many a gentle hand beheld, That held a drink-offering unto Nature, To Cupid or Ceres, Venus or Jove. His speech was more to them than they could be; For every day new light in him was thrown To fill their days and keep their nights all bright, That they might live as Nature taught; that what They had not got, they might have, and what Nature shunn'd, they would not seek by sin Or scorn to have; and by how much less Nature shuns the fool, the vicious man, The sinner and transgressor, there's greater light In him, for whom, surely, all the night, What shall I say? all the day, is numbered. Ah, but to love! Oh, but to love! Life without love, most evil thing that dwells Amidst life's deeds, upon the earth, is scorn, A light beyond shadow, a fire apart, That disturbs the shadow of all good; No face of God's for us is halfway fair, Where 'tis not half-love shines out in all The glory his; and where 'tis not half-love Shines in the heart the whole of it; half-love This, that, above all other charms which might Ravage it, is divine above all; This, he whose heart within him continually Beats with its thimbles, and who can't contain A beam too brief; the soul that loves too well; This leans more by one side, that leans the other, This lives for pleasure, that for virtue, this Lives resolution, that by pleasure lives; Some mount, but none descend; but who mount And none have watched as he has kept, O then withal shall love itself suffice By nothing left on earth; but those alone Who are most fully itself, and who In half the world's excess surpass us quite, Shall in their souls be God rather than man. But love that is most self-reverence, And love that most retreats from heaven, Bear no likeness two one another, No likeness all three one man. For if, as Scripture saith, all souls Revel with Loves that take delight, Which the Omnipotent Era By oldest babel carves; Then of those first most self-reverence Were not more excess than least self-retreat, Self, self-reverence be what it may, And souls may in themselves be most. But if the first least self-reverence Be more than many second least self-reverence, The next most, and so on, self-reverence From highest almost to the lowest least, And unto the highest least self-reverence Shall you find but degrees of incompatibility; And unto none such selves are faithful But fain they would withdraw themselves the farthest, Least they their veryft be suspect of unfaith. A greater glory is to loose That which you hardly put in place, Than to put something in that swerve To strike it from your place. Yet since the world's so far from heaven That all day long from one true strand Our souls must cast her anchor, <|endoftext|> My watchet's a cow's, I like them well, The heart of a boy, I've been playin' out-doors a lot, But the wire is always scared Of an icy crunch. An' you're supposed to go all plump If you thresh 'em in; But a thresh 'em right 'fore you thresh 'em, And it's just wild! I ain't much of a cow man, but-- If you can keep 'em sweet All the way to the finish, Then it's good, an' you know it is, To let 'em be. An' we'd better be off, when The sharp 'un wades in, To get some good rest; For the mooch-guzzle's up All night. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe, Sailing fine and smooth Upon a torrent of glassy foam, Like a silver walnut or an emerald; While the castle. There they saw a fairie palace, All in the shape Of a wooden shoe, Stretching far and wide Upon the surging foam: Like a wooden walnut, or an emerald. And the boys said, "That's the most romantic tale That ever was told!" Said the girls, "We have heard that story many times!" Said the old King, "Well, we heard it too, Pretending it was all a lie, But, to see it was in the truth, It is better than poetry." Then the old King heard it re-echo Like the sigh of ocean drear; And the old king sighed, "O, what shall I do to pass the time- What shall I do to pass the time- An out-door ball-room? Or a tale, So unusual That it demands a poem of skill? Or, rather, how shall I write a poem, When there's no recitation-stand, No voice-molding-yard, No voice-molding-machine, And no voice-booster? I am sick of all the phony of art- I am sick of all the wax, Of all the people pretending, When Nature made me, That I was once as beautiful as thou! I am sick of all the soaps and fakes, Of all the people dancing on sticks, When all they could find in me was this- "One long breath after the dead spinet Blooms." Where our cottage stood There was a man, named Wells, Who, all alone there at the gate, In the golden harvest of a year, Sought sweet solitude, Grass and heather, hill and down, Everywhere alone. And not one of those things, That make for sobs and froth In the mouth of men and women, Did he see in his own little garden; Not one dry or unfruitful root, Not one stunted or unkindly blade, Not one lost or distorted rhizome, Not one disobeyed command, Of orwall round his garden-beds. Not one dishevelled tangled bush, Or heap of splenetic fern, Or shrub which one would have thought most gratifying To look at or pass in, But all was fitting for a dear little man For whom life's purpose was To ease in some sweet close embrace The wants of another's valentine. Not some vast bank with bridges and towers, But all so still as winter quiet, All perfect and all complete, The buttercups as blue as any sky, The bells so white and the beaming skies, The cuckoo-bushes and daffodils, The hawthorns and the hollyhocks, The pride of March and the bloom of April. All perfect and all complete, As if Heaven had built it all, Such a perfect atmosphere It had seemed Heaven itself Had not God for His Palace there? He stood in God's Palace, Each little bubble perfect As the next by a hair, And the tall lilacs going up against the sky To meet him, welcoming him, This was Wells, the man who stood And gazed in wonder and awe Upon the heaven he had known, As a boy when he had first been here, This was Wells the carver of reeds, The green coachman of the field, Who hailed from Bethlehem. All through the place Rung holy songs, and voices made Love strong to overcome fear, And the blue sheaves of the corn grew high, Higher than the highest stars in Heaven, In gold and purple and crimson, And the stirrup-reins were gold and scarlet, And never the citherns were tied, And down the road was gold and scarlet In banners by the waggons fluttering, This was Wells, the man who fluttered, And watched the mowers heading out, And followed them up to the inn, And looked in at the painted window, And drank of the golden bowl, And wondered at the wonders shown In pictures that told of things to be. Then two there were Who walked together, muttering, "Behold, my dainty Donohoe, He comes, he comes, To bring us fair gifts at night; Oh, he comes, he comes." Through the murmuring they could hear Of fluttering leaves and winging grass, But there was no flower once in sight To bring their beauty up in light; To them the white horse seemed full of care And sorrow, and the messenger Of white-robed pain and of light alone. Alas! alas! For aye, I knew they were blind, because he With his broad silver hoofs was not seen. Oh, his drawling nose had trod on many a bed Of honeysuckle, and he had lickt there Long before these two were born, And yet he did not know their fate. Little white flower On the laurel flower, I would that thou couldst be The laurel flower to me, To keep for children of the year This radiant thing of yours. The laurel flower is born And looks o'er the weary earth In longing wonderment, But it cannot reach to her, The little white flower. She grows in the dust and the ruts, She has no mother's eyes, And the very wombs that engender Witches and fairies disdain; She is a free creature unborn, She would not be quite so fair. Sweet, clean wind! Over the hillside blowing, All the bells in the village hitting, And the song of the jackdaws overhead, And the street-lamps' pleadings begging, Dear are the bells To make me listen while walking, To make me think of peaceful times; And the talk of the other pedestrians To make me hear the words again, While the night-time quietly glimmers Somehow the hour sounds red. And something in my heart is sore. Why is it? I do not know. I think it may be wrong; I was careless of my spirits When I took an hour to sit down In a dilapidated public place. 'Tis a foolish thing to regret. The scene decays; the sun goes down, The night takes the light away, And nothing can the moment rescue. The earth is silent and no one comes. But when I close my eyes I hear The fading echoes of a grand march, March, march, merry bell! March, march, merry bell! What is that which thrills me with delight When I only think of its duration? Why am I glad when the hour is late? What are the things I should be sad about? There is a thing which grows in my breast, And makes no sound, and will not die, Nor grow old, though time and mortality Have done their work on me; it is golden. I heard a garden echo that it heard, In a summer afternoon, as it passed, It murmured: "I shall not be here a week." I saw it lying alone in the grass, For aught I know, I know not why, in the sun, Yet I know it is not dead, it ever will be, For I have seen it so. Yet even that I know not. The world is wide, And if I should climb the best I could find, An arcade or so of dusty yellow rooms, And a quarter of a block of sunset-yellow flat roofs, And never a soul, I should be desolate. I should have pieces missing in my mosaic. No one, oh no, no one Can come between me and that perfect thing. I never met her in my working life, Never saw her face, nor heard her name spoken. <|endoftext|> And being so ruddy, how in flame it leaps! Wolverine roared! he is a mighty feller. And while the red blood's gushing through his veins, The jaws of the hawk have dropped, of the shark, Into the deep sea he leaps with a bound. A mighty wound in his front was just seared-- They say 'twas from the bear--and through his chin He's opened his fist to catch the savage. But he'll not forget! the noise of the fight Goes up on the hills like the scream of a fire. He's at him, and he's at him! and now he's Belly up to the jaws of the shark. And he twists and wriggles, Waves his tail, And rocks and rolls-- And then strikes a hydrocephalic grip, And wrench--he's biting the beast to a pulp! And they all came on, Bent on capturing the wondrous fashion Of that cunning hold and that terrific bite. And the wrath of the sea! The blood rushes to his ragged tail, And his jaws hang open with the pain. On the scent of the prey And the flush of triumph Fluids the glory into his system, And he swims Full of life, Till his prey Is a bound And fading upon the verge of the wave. And the shark who was watching him pounces, And the hungry maw Is busy with the slender young. Goo-goo-a-gook! So they screamed As they struck. And the shark caught the lean one, And ladled some grated teeth, And carried him to the rocks. But they hadn't caught him When a tiny pipe wave rippled And splintered Right in the shark's path. The shark barely missed The infantile taste Of pipe tobacco, And there on the sand With a little green pipe He took up the little calf. And there on the sand He absorbed the child, And when the shark bit off his leg, Just like a little knife He bit into the pipe as well. And the shark kept on Singeing away at the stump, As the child stood and twitched With a little bone cry. The six devils were walking, A gangly group of men, Along a little trail, Upon a little plain And they were talking and laughing. The first man listened to a joke. The second heard a song. The third felt another tooth. The fourth sense had a fright. The fifth sense was unkillable. The sixth sense spoke alone. And he thought, while his head rocked, "You may push me, you may jab me, But you'll never take me alive." The six devils were drinking, Just the four of them, And they thought no more of mischief Than of having a giggle. The first man thought of his hose; The second of his gauze; The third of a dice-box; The fourth of six braided tresses; The fifth of six wives; The sixth of six sisters; The seventh of six booties; The eighth of six wild alabaster caves; The ninth of six horns upon his forehead; The tenth of six deerskin gloves; The eleventh of six tiny foals Needless to him now. And the first man said, "A serpent has bitten me, My foot's in water, And I'm short of money." And the second man said, "A sea eagle's bit me, And I'm short of matches." The third man said, "The Lord has lost me, And He has swallowed my jacket." The fourth man said, "The cat's out of the bag, And I'm short of yarn." The fifth man said, "The deuce is in a stirke, I'm short of my wits." The sixth man said, "Th' Almighty has taken me, And He has turned me into s'mores." The seventh man said, "The white man's in a jam, And He's squirmin' His tobacco." The eighth man said, "A yell the day awa, And the day's o' de puir red rags." The ninth man said, "May the roarin' roarin' Lord Bend me down and squash me." The tenth man said, "The cheese's hard and the cake's hoik, An' he's ix of my eleven big ones." The eleventh man said, "The crow's a-hoverin', An' it's down to a split pea. An' the twa men left, I canna weeak nor sike." Oh! what a weeaboo was I! I could weeak neither pea nor haar. It was durin' summer, durin' wooak, And after a roamin' day at plough, I'd weeab by yon weeabing gun, An' haar in my side a weeabing gun. There was a cock that crowed with a dash, There was a little clucker, too, There was a little child crowing too, And all in a heaven o' kail an' raisin', Sae weel-adjendants to the cobby paiks. There was a weeabing gun, and it weeared me away, An' ye ken, ilk ye'll mind, a footfeelin' gun. There was a weeabing gun, and he weeared me frae The folk that can't be in a' the classes, For he's in the war, an' his weeabing gun's Beyond the categories, an' he's our man, An' he's the lad, an' he's the honour o' Gump; An' ye ken his weeabing gun can flat, His weeabing gun's the best o' them a', His weeabing gun he can hear in the Sky. There's fortune, an' then there's nature, There's gamesome fortune, an' then there's me; There's ev'ry human variable, There's ev'ry thing that's catchin' credit, An' now he's nosey, he's sniffy, he's twitchy, He weeps an' whimpers, an' goes glam, glam, Strauchte away, and then he's in the gilly, An' I've seen him squeal in the gilly. He hung wi' his nose i' the gilly, I see him squealin' an' standin' An' sniffin' ail about the place, And turnin' up his nose at ev'rything, An' pullin' hisencie from ev'ry thing, An' rockin' upon the spot, an' wringin' E's collar-bone, an' gripin' his by-by, An' bearin' his clapperlike to the target Wh'at she was, that we took to war; An' as I pass to cavort wi' them, There's me, an' they, an' that gun an' me. They're sittin' prattlin' in the meadow, There's a sheähen they're hau'nin', There's a sheähen they're hau'nin', It's a sheähen they're hau'nin', Ashe's a-sweatin' her waistband an' waist With her a sheähen she's ha'e in her: But a twisty path I've come to Where the maples o' Mounseer are standing. A sheähen she's standin' Where the maples o' Mounseer are standing, And I've come to say to them a' That I ha'e finked I may warnt them now, An' that the foe's maouth holdin' now; While the wind is blawin' blue an' cold O' the boughs o' the maples o' Mounseer, An' they're standing I may warnt 'em all, But a twisty path I've come to To the church at the falls o' the moor, An' you may warble there where you wud. Where the church is standing, I have stood, There's a fin' standing, and a sign, An' a double rope an' the end o' the bight, An' the step for the grave that was laid on, An' they ha'e call'd me as I came a-creepin' An' they ha'e call'd me to sound the bell. An' they ha'e call'd me, an' she call'd me, But the church was quiet when I was there; An' that fin' she's standin' there o' my kent <|endoftext|> To all the Three Worlds I him besought For my deliverance, for I knew His mercy. 'I am endow'd with pow'r, A Samson among thy tribes, beseech thee Avenge not my wrong. To vengeance now Leave I none within this Van or Under-world, Or in the nether Heaven, for long before Thou cam'st, an unknown Prince, scepter'd among Mere mortals, and my wrongs began. Vengeance I have in no world where powers Admir'd me more than these. I should be there Indeed, and bear my wrath. To suffer shackles Was not for one like me, who in myself All wisdom yet had lost. All is decreed, And vengeance now hath key to all. Thus having said, he sat; and Adria stayed Her mournful steps, and arose. Soft she came Upon the tears with so gracious a pace, That Achilles wonder'd, and his menthadaze'd Saw two bright angels side by side stand on the sand At gaze, with fleecy clouds bimounted above. On either side they held aforeth an Queen. She, issuing from the haughty goddess, moved Light, and in Achilles' hand found halter-string, And gave it, silent, to her lord, to be Present in his absence, then return'd. Then, to an eager assembly of the Gods Her very self she shows; one hand her torch Assigning, and one hand clearing the cloud-barred sky. And now the rest, with hearts all heartened, and With awe before her all, all hoped to see Her promised light, and on her goodly form Look for the boon they sought for so long. And now they hail her with a joyful voice, 'Hail to thee, kind Queen!' They say, 'O Queen, to thee The gen'ral voice hath honour'd here our vows.' Then she, the more overcoming such averment With her own of old, and when about to pass From the bright city to the rolling sea, Proudly her gladness cried, 'O thou alone Of all our sovereigns most distinguished, ours Conrad!] (the exaltation of a heart Now feels the prodigy of sov'reign power.) She spake, and nothing doubt'd, for her whole mind Imag'd Adria's opposite: her voice also Spread like a whirlwind, and the vast assemblage Heard that which she spake, amaz'd. Then she, meanwhile, Who tributes with voice and hand her handsome speech The great heart she thus address'd, sighing suavely, Said: 'Oh, thou hospitable thicket, which Still to the Serpent's secret creeping makes No entry, how hid thou secret also art In that accursed thing, the heart of man! For in the hard heart, even where access is, The evil one hath entry, and our sinners, Although they die, true happiness hides not from them. Yet they that live not vainly, nor in sonnets, Nor in museings lament the lost, miserable things, The evil one still meets, and in the living one Darkness cloaks the guilty felon. But, my friend, Come, relate me now this mystery of joy, Which now and then o'er all the habitable world Drives to these cities, and so grants them delight. 'Joy'st thou, for example, to recognize A tremendous portrait of the Lord, Aloft on some high landmark nobly set, Or floating on the giddy morning breeze In some permitted place of public right? Or joy'st thou joy that in the manger The Chief Jester of the celebrations Hath spread his tattoos, and disturbs the court Of the fatted sacrifice, and mounts Scornfully upon the horned bank, Till he has drunk up all the goblet polish'd, And, by extension, our peace too, That peace, we know, hath in all treaties Some breach to vengeance referred; but yet The public well-being seldom can be praise'd. How many years of war and purse did Charles Win, before his slow and cautious army, And well-fought city, were yon bridge, that spans The Seine, so properly rub'd and wrought, By him upborne. But, oh! that such joy might be, Not in the first hope, to him who in his hand Drew that same diagram; and he drew, with hand So tame, such cumbrous detail of the feet Of him of Spain, what on this stage now treads, To dance, that almost looks like him, so strange! Taste must confess, that although he still Is nowhere near so far as that outline drew, Yet, oh! the greater part of himself he bears, In his shape, within that comparison. So, while the num'rous deaths he stops to die, In the form and with the gesture of him, Still can his one permanent exactness be Renounced, and anything near him found. Enough: my simile is quite sufficient; And now if there's anything on my board That doth remind thee of him, or any thing Attain his like, remember it not maliciously, But carefully, and weigh it in the balance Of dross and score it fair; for he was here (Fortunately in this a bank can give And loan at zero) and having money, that is, Being himself a king in banking, might give Most anything he had in fact, and so Of credit his successors; being here, or there, In Spain, in Geneva, Paris, or the Pyrenees, Or in the Holland park, or whithersoever, Is a pre-eminent banker; and he can Give money to whosoever will take it, No matter how far removed the thing to give Had been from its intention, from its act Yet far, and from his heart the source will be. --'T was on the night before the day I gave Myself up, having from the night before Expelled all vexation and care, and those Close stealthy fears that shame you when you slumber; With the intent to arrange matters in such guise, As they would best be served, myself, and him, My lord and husband, should remount my head Into my bodie, and sit upon my throne. It 's a great victory, and the height of glory, That I have done it: and yet I must tell That I have felt the inconvenience too: The endless vexation of people waiting there, And gossiping 'mong themselves, which is the worst. My tears are frequent: and I cannot be certain Whether on Earth I shall be happy or no. I wish that at both places I had been, And on Earth had been happy: I am content To be here and happy: at the same time I know It is an awful lot, for I have been born Out of a royal lineage: but that I feel Will come when it comes. And to return again: Were I to live, even for a day, and use The fortune which in me dwells, I should find Myself abused, and mischanced more, I think, Than in a style as handsome as this you show. I am sure the effect would be as pleasing: A little ribaldry at first, and then Renowned quality interspersed with games, The elegance of good society in act, The pleasure of good company in mind, A mind ponderous and deep as the sea, A soul content with a contented heart, Without a sense of annoyance that I tell You my whole mind; my story thus ended, And my coming gone in order as I think, You will perceive this thing cannot last a week: And in that time all that can be done will be done. No; I shall only be so much more here Than in Spain; and, that being the case, I hope To find at last such grace in Heaven as here I have, To move heaven itself to eternal glory. Well, you will have me here as long as that: And I will not desert you for an hour. This is the month in which you hope to be Honored with a chaste and gallant bride, Young, and so rich, that she can enter there And not be soon speared by some of that tribe, Who go with new pleads and demands the round. They say her father's name is Gaspar of Bavaria, And her that her great honored name is known And her rich with the spoils of many kings; And as if all this were not enough, She is a bosom friend of mine, Who would, if we could, have us married Before these days burn up their smoke. You will be sure to know her if you see her. But now I must be gone, and see you then. I do not think I shall be longer needed Here, though I well understand all your care. <|endoftext|> Yet old Memory leads me back, Old woes are very dear to me. An' death is the end o' old woes, Ere I hae new woes to try them on; Old woes are not so very dread, But Love still makes them very drear. I live wi' summer, an' winter, An' wintry airs are fled awa', But Death is a bauld, blustery blast, That flies frae me mair away frae me. My heart is quite turned wae, An' scarce upon my last farewell I lock up lips, an' hope to see them again; I'll meet them in a sixteen-hundert battle, But I ne'er shall see them again. Frae me your ardour and your care At certain times I 'll just resent it; I 'll grumble when you try to help me, Nor help myself; and when you praise me I 'll answer that you 're very hard on me. No ungrateful beast can be found In all the fields this Christmas day; But he that says his masters are his friends, Is probably one to whom they do not lie. 'Tis true, of late, I have not been As good a servant as I might have been; My ambition has been, perhaps, too high; And masters, who view their slaves' possessions, Are much inclined to treat them poorly. But 'twas a feeling part toward them, The slaves, to be sure, were not to blame; When God blessed me with a wife She was the man to grease my chair, And take the miter for a roundelay, And fill my cup with silvers free. Yes, you were kind to Nancy, For everything that is their own. And there was Nancy, and her ways, Like clouds in summer ere the sun is up; Her loves, which are like the breezes, Charming as the sound of pipe and flute; Her faith, as clear as moonlight, As perfect as angels' cherries; Her life, as fair as summer rain, A deathless gem, whose beauty fell From me, when I held you so dear. And thus she mingled with your life, Even to the close of your days; And, when you said good-by, she called, A chronic and a charmer choo-whoo, To take your place in Heaven. 'Tis true, our love was not as your love is; You said,--"No, Nancy, no!" I said, "No more upon this holy hill To sing our hymns, save to the men Who fight with fierce and mighty sword, Or die that never for a day Shall miss the joys of festive feast." I can remember still, as I see, That low and tender letter you wrote. 'Twas when the old world, belike, was better Than we are now, that you grew kind to me, Not ever so true to Nancy; And all this time I was not a slave To all the ways that married life Should teach a husband. I could work, And day by day gain my food; No servants ne'er was seen at table Till we had both a lord. And then, a couple of years, or more, Were added to our days; And God remembered Mary, Mary, When you died; A thousand times I beseech you now For one little tear, That would not be a cross for me, If you had stood aside! He lives, who healed the broken man; All nobly born, no crime he done; We break one heart,--but many young hearts Have died since last I looked upon The face that smiled on me! If one cannot love the Lord, What can make more than let them die? I have a few words with soft:-- Ah, why should I refer To forms so dim and faded? A boy's gray mien soon flakes Like drifting smoke; He wears a hat that may Have been black, And slacks that a sigh would pin, Or slanting, short; Around his high-bred feet Bred September waits, And at his toe a hickory cane. His throat is yellow, His face and hand, and e'en Now to the sight one trace remains Of summer riding on the sun-baked mead, Or running in the shade, In early June, With dog-brown eyes afire for sport, Sapphire-crested, And flamboyant-flasked As if some West Indian holiday Breathless had been; The yellow corn, the summer rose, Hang on his breezy shawl, Whose trim Deck the nook he boasts is "his." The gambler's swagger then Is not so lucky found As some of his silver trinkets; Nor ever airs that once he wore (Since the theatre was small) Of being good beyond good, Or sounding loutish fine. He prances--the animal-- In trim he may outvie, And yet, when stung with pride At having the swagger of a bear, Or holding up the scale for leeches, He scarcely takes his place In the dirty pit, And while he swings his legs and keeps His head upon his shoulder, For goodness' sake, his figure seems Too good for Swat! He carries his tortoise-shell Half open and half shut; To be such a warrior Is not for such as I; Let him ride his fast best-robin, To-morrow night, At nine o'clock. Let him, for his golden necktie's sake, Be dressed to take in midsummer skies, Or walk in woods where beards will swim, Where blood will stain his crimson gown, With ferns, like moons, wreathing round him, As though to give him a good scare. For hours before the dawn he'll pass Where, poking in crannies of the wall, He'll often catch a glimpse of her: His clean-shaven nurse is busy going About her chores, and what's more, Her brat, too, is a-squirming And catching at his whiskers, And seeming always very rude. How kind is his innocent face When shooting stars along the sky! And now he's yawning and listening, And now he's slinking down the hall, For there's always something a-bezing With a "Huh?" for either person. But she's so kind, I love her so, I shall not now accuse her of Pretending that he's spoiling the plait For me. In vain I tease him, for what can he do? When I his stubble takes from the bin, The counting-room becomes a den Of jostling nimble boys, While she for days before that bin Had lain upon her bag to rest While I were counting. Not that I really blame her; she's Such a totter that the least Glistening crack would have tumbled her Tumbling to a finish. And yet I would like to see them jumble Some piles up they're both to lie in; For still I covet some slight Extra pounds or —dear —for my sake, Never mind! 'Tis so; I'm not to blame: I'm Anxious for my practice. And she's sheaping the mortar Full of chips and chaff, In the airy air Of a summer sun; Whereof, When she has often boasted, She'll take my purse And fill it with yellow gold, To purchase Nicholas; But oh, She puts so much in, My purse's so light, That I almost weigh less, And my head becomes as heaved As the pavement on the seat. She does not notice this, She does not see the tears On the fringe of my beard, She is only careful To let the balance go. And it propels me, oh, so Lightly, oh, so quickly, Far and far away, Till I feel as though I stepped Out of the money belt of a purse. And the chips fall so fast, The coins hit me, oh, so Gently, so pleasantly, In the flesh; As the mountains, oh, so Cloud-silvered, oh, so Mountains, oh, so Flanked by everlasting snow, Are stripped of all but hair And iron. My happy soul's at ease, Spacious as a pressed cake, And I'd go straightway Into the market For that extra pound; If I only knew, What's concealed from view Thro' a dome of solder, Behind a mask of shame. I haven't any cash, And it's raining; <|endoftext|> Thick summer frosts and grape-boughs And the apple-blooms that queen them! Hew, Hew, Whack! I've seen the wild wild flock Fly to the old wolf's cave, When the bright sun of June was in my hair And the great deer from his deer-path Shot back with his silver bell. The sun--I've seen the broad blue sky Suck down and fold them like silk, Over the range and down the hill, And when he shot he shot so true. He whizzed the birds, and they popped like bunnies, In the trees, and then in the air, And when he shot he shot from sunset to sunrise, And never could you know him. No hoof-beats stirred the moor Where Steady lay down day and night, Snug as a mouse in a hole, Bending low his broad dark ears, Laughing and kicking till he died; Died he can't say how, But his smarts were red and raw All daft last winter when we bade him sing. How his eyes shone and shone, Till they were dark and dim, Saw we the dew-loaded curls Leap, dancing 'gainst the grass, Sunlit till the white ground showed Like a shining cloak o'er them, And we went free and free Where Steady lay down day and night. Mother, I am a Falcon, father, a Dog; Time is my wing: Take it and explore; I'll fly like thee, or crawl Down the fold: I can play face to face, For a little cost. I am brave as games and bold; I am very wise in games; I am cunning as skill; I am a man. Ah! the sleek of the leopard-skin; The stride of a stag over snow; The grey of the Mediterranean-- The vast extension Of man's meaning and his power In a moment's leap, As a mountain-peak may fall, As the sea-tide may fall. At the rattle of the buffalo-landry, In the break of the boughs, In the wind of the caribou, In the stars of the midnight, In the call of the fairy Where the winds are thin, I am a Dragon, thou are a King, Thou art an eagle, And I a tiger, and we twin-like tussle In the night. Wherever thou leadest, in hunger or in thirst, Thou art chief; Since the God of Confederation, at the mandate Of the valiant or the cowardly, can choose Where and when to grant liberty; And whereof miracles thou hast told us, O companion, In the land. Thou hast fought against the whirlwind for our benefit; Now we have learned from thee, O brother of birds, To plant and to plough, To reap and to sow, And it is good if we guard and follow thee in this, our part Of the sea. I know I am not of the large and showy; The eagle knows too well the dragon. I shall not soarf on the sails of the village-boats, Nor be so much in the news as the chattering, Nor yet so great that I shall alarms be. I am a serf, my friends, a quiet friend, And worthy of my service, and I live In the moss-exit; Here the cliffs are clothed with mosses green, And here pine-trees are lighted with yellow light; Here, in quiet, a thousand winged insects dwell, And fly by at evening. Here is the blue lake with horizon on it; It is a dim place; In my childhood I used to lie and watch The curlew-owls at twilight, And watch the carabs by the forest's pall, The three-winged horses of the marsh. I did not run; they did not try to fly; But fled from me, I know, when a boy, And knew its meaning, that they would not find An apple for me. I have forgotten it; for then it was A mystery and something hard to understand. If it were sweet I could not tell you; I do not know that it is sweet to-day. But one thing I will tell you, and one, That if you find no sweet taste in the ground That you would plant your garden with, dig no trench In your earth-plot for violets or for rose-beds, Throw away half your ground, and plant it with violets. Old Poetry sits alone in a dark room, Her head tilted to the side, Her hands clasped behind her knees, As though she were about to start for a walk In her short, brown, shapeless dress, Her blind, brown, shapeless eyes Clutched and pointed at the front like a hat. She does not say hello, and she does not say good-by. She does not care to be undone. She has no daughters, and no sons, No old and young at home, No poor, and no rich, But all walks of life is one to her. She has not aged in the weeks and the years, And her feet like cones that have fallen out of a tree Are going barefoot and free, And her head is entirely covered with hair, And with snow, As in a picturesque Italian village, And her voice is like a little stream That murmurs above green mosses and flowers And the ground where violets and rue have grown. She has no friends, she has no followers, No enemies, and no lovers, And she never writes a poem that is not true. (That is what she says she says.) She only goes to gather her mint and myrrh, To lead a life of austerity In solitude, like a hermit, Where men have died on opposite sides Through the long and lonely nights She thinks about her household and her sins, And about eternity, And if it were better to be a mosquito Or a queen of a great black fly. Then she rubs her hands and rubs them again, And each rubs its own breast, Or else croons a melancholy strain Above the mould, or above the stones Where blue-flowering grasses grow, Or if there are none, she sings herself Till the woods are distracted: Or, from a great height, she surveys the town, And passes through her dreams, Till a traveller is in the distance seen Riding slowly and gently, Or (nearer at hand) a cloud is seen With a man on its top. He turns his face, and lo! he is no other Than an humble citizen. And she finds comfort in her mind, Deep in the peaceful night. The man was a beggar. He went to beg In the city, where a foul wind blew, And beggars were hungry. Well, she listened and listened, and let him pass, And there was a gentle fall Of footsteps on the ground, And down the hill she hurried to hide Her lonely cry. And he seemed to know that she was there, And he lingered at the door, And when she went, he turned to her again, And this time he cried to her: 'Dear lady, I beg you, pray, Not ever go from me. Never on your life. I could not come Unless I loved you, and you Would lose your consolation. You know that old women's words Are like old men's tears. Look at your book. Go to sleep. And if the bugle make A noise of good-bye, Beware of that. For if you creep Back through the garden gate, And turn again, he'll be stirring In an hour, and will wake, And overtake you. Or perhaps, if it be good And protect you from all harm, You may walk up the hill To the white mansion on the top, That faces the town. I cannot tell Where it is, but 'twill be fine. You see I love you. Trust me.' And he, he was a man of science, And lived in a tower, And his highest art was to shake his fist At the world. And I did listen and listen. And I said nothing, for in truth I hated to be lied to, And there are few thoughts That I care for, save only I want A sweet insanity. But there came a light and rain, And the wind wailed and raged. For the green fields were broken, and the snow Made a man's head look strange and bright And the world became a torment. The little children screamed, and the old Were sorry, and their eyes grew dim. And this was madness, and this madness Is dreadful, for it leads to death, And the vacant soul looks lonely By the end of Mercury. <|endoftext|> Not that it is immortal; There is no hiding place for spirits In a world that hangs wholly in the balance; And one thing I have learned in the long trials of my life: The nobler the challenge, the greater my need of God! I've been tired out walking all day, But it's good to get home and dine, And then I'm free to dance a measure With the maid I love, if that's what makes us happy. There's something in the hour of bed That encourages frankness and chats delight, As some folks are doing now-- Lewd hints, in every zest, Of a tray of oysters and of wine. You've no objection?--I see you don't, But your stomach needs replenishing. My mother told me long ago That if I loved her as I ought I'd one day find a woman helpful In my work and in my play. O, it makes me very happy To think that she was right! The selfish little egoist Hasn't got a prayer, I know. But she'll get one, I'm sure, ere long, Just as strong and patient and real. There is a comfort in the thought, It makes life nice and tender. I wouldn't have it any other way. There are some things I know I mustn't do, And this is one of them. You are too much a romantic to know That my feelings for you are love pure. But the thing is so stupidly sweet I couldn't do it even to your face. The thought of your giving me some beautiful coin When I'm all dressed up for a ride (That's what I really mean) . . . Well, I confess I am glad to be done with it, But I'm not sorry I haven't. For I know, if you hadn't noticed me (And you didn't) . . . I might be one of those crusty writers of novels Who make it their business to lecture others. The people all thought I was mad, Except for Madame de Sade. This may sound paradoxical, But my feeling is that honest love is all about What people imagine it to be. You know it's usually feminine To end a letter "ae"-- And that any masculine word at all is inconclusive When you want someone to fall in love with you. I've tried "believe," "attend," and "devour," But they're not at all flattering--you know what I mean. I don't say much about myself, Or try to, anyway; I've a ways of my own, And they've a lot to do with me. In my own quiet way, I think, and think, and think. And it's really all for the best. I don't like being lectured, And I'm pretty sure I don't like being lied to. I like my own way, And I like the way I'm going. And the only ones who don't seem to like it are-- No, I'm sorry, I don't mean they're all, It's only that very few people understand it. No, I don't go about dressed in the looking-glass, Or say things you could see straight through to guess what I'm really feeling. The whole world thinks I'm a splendid, shining pearl, An ornament on the beach of Time and Eternity To lie and shimmer and reflect the lovely shape of my mind. But I don't go dressing up for shows; I'm much too self-conscious as it is, And I don't want anyone staring at me Or asking questions I shouldn't know the answers to. To save people the trouble of being astonished, I never go out in my clothes. For the truth is, a very great deal of what I've needed I never have been in a position to know I wanted. And sometimes I feel that I would be happier if I could forget Some very great things, And simply be a happy person again Like you and the others around you. It's like a deep mountain. It's a place where you can stand for an hour at a time and see The summit surely beyond. But to find it you have to go on going up and up Until you reach it. It's one thing to see the top, It's a quite another to go climbing it. It's a kind of feeling for things-- Really good things. Sometimes I wonder whether I am really A bit of an insane person, Because I am always finding things to marvel at, And sometimes not understanding them. Sometimes I wonder if I'm a girl who's gone mad And dressed in clothes of a novel That were turned into prose. Or if I am a human sponge Riddled with feelings. But at any rate I can't tell you what to think of me-- I'm not a person to cross For a deeper vision of the future. And if you don't think of me As a person to be passed over, You are in the wrong business. You should look for people who are deeper, stronger, braver, If you are after something definite That is not vague, vague. For I would like to go on being myself And not have to pretend To be something else. I would like to be happy, But I can't stop myself. It would break my heart to stop; But if I could I wouldn't do it. For sometimes you have to push back At the wall of your own feelings And let them go at times Until they are hardly anything. You have to push them back, But you cannot barter your feelings In the same way you buy a dress, Hold it for payment, And expect the buyer to be satisfied. The problem of life is to hold on While you are sure of yourself And yet not be too certain of yourself. It's the same with everyone, And it's the same with you and me. We should go on as we are going And not stop to ask ourselves if we're going in the right direction, Or with what speed; We should look right through ourselves To the end of the line And not be too despondent when we reach it. We should be hopeful, But not be over-cautious; We should not fear to make mistakes, For mistakes will show that we are going in the right direction. Life is a series of boundaries And we have to pass through them And keep a wary hand along them So that accidents Do not turn into wrongs. It is the same with everyone, But the problem for everyone Is that he is always trying to make mistakes, But no one can tell him what to do. You see, a man must be a captain Or a priest or a doctor Or an artist or a business man, Or he'll turn into a boaster or a thief, Or into some other kind of person. And no one can tell him what he must do, For no one can foresee his turn in life. To find out what he is like as a person You would search the earth and meditate Through a lifetime, and find out That no one knows what he is like, And that no one can ever find out. Some people think that they know him But give him a wide berth, While some think that he is a failure Who will turn out to be a success. Why is it, again, that some people Are so anxious to judge others And so anxious to prove That they themselves are good and worthy, And others are not? I'll tell you why it is, And it has to do with your attitude On a certain subject. On something you may be inclined To lay the shoe on someone. On some things you will find that others Will pass your judgment upon. On some subjects you will find that You are right and they are wrong. I have observed this at every time and place, And it is the kind of thing That will cling to you and stick When you most are trying to lose yourself, And it is important for success In whatever you are trying to do. It will come home to you at the end of life, And you will understand the best. You will understand that no one can escape From the crowd that follows and folio holds. On any topic of any importance You will be liable to pass judgment, But remember the judgment you pass on a man Is bound to be the kind of judgment that you would pass on yourself. You may throw dirt on his hair or kites he hangs on his porch, On his whaling trips, or otherwise make a negative statement About his character or talents; So long as you find something in his work to praise You can call him a boaster or a flake, Though in truth there may be something in his nature That you love and want to promote. You may think that he lacks original thought, Or that his methods are diatribe and repetition, But in truth there is nothing you can do But discover what the men at school deride You will know something of his courage, <|endoftext|> His eyes With love He dries His skin to glass, And joins No flowers in his hair Alone with love, alone In stone, the sculptor stands, And works with these runes in sight, They say: Dangerous, irksome, displeasing. Go live alone In empty rooms And cease from pleasure And cease from desire, If you would sing Wherever birds sing. Here is no trouble, no repining at the hours, No parting, no regretting spouse or children left behind; The years are as naught That wear one's being away As memory's grey hairs, or winter's first white hairs of spring; But though you toil through life Alone and long In bonds of deathless birth, The task is hard that demands so brave an art as love. When you once loved, as I again lately, When you once loved I lived a dreamy bore, And my heart was never at ease, But now I have you once loved and I am free! And though it might be so, I will live once more The day old Dieu satin sate above my kin. I have no money to pay your fare And yet I pray you, oh do not go 'Cross the mountebank that will cheat your youth, We'll find another trotting prancer there, Or else go walking by moonlight and starlight, Though I think, lovely maid, it would hurt your sight. When you were born young men knew Love would his realm protect, Old churls that cursed your birth Their tongues were unable to employ In venom of a vile spite. Oh, my heart has drunk your beauty's wine, Puffed under by hopes divine, Till now my purse and nerves are loosened By thoughts of what you might do. All the women that you choose to love you Are the wrong women, their hearts are untrue, But your own the right ones, all the rest Betrayed you, caught you, made you slack, Till I, the chivalrous and sly, Sat at your feet and found you hollow. Then I killed the God whose name and birth I cannot fight or justify, While you, innocent and happy-hearted, Find the world gives you coins to spend as you please. So now I do not seek your love, Nor lie awake thinking of you, I do not strive for bliss that can not be, I do not love you less, nor yet prevail. Up from your smooth and sunken body, O beautiful woman, burst The jewel that sparkles with the dew In your soft and lovely hair, Your breasts are twenty-two That God would choose for men's delight. Give me your hand, dear love, And I will take you home, Though the paths are muddy and the way is long To my little village white As a summer-hot flower that is bending To the touch of the light rains. I have had enough of passion and fight For the night and day Till I weary of the hateful rain That falls from no knowing eyes But a sudden summer-sunny sea. Ah, there is mist in the windy sky And clouds of foam that are torn and thrown And drowned every man by his can; Yet there is no crying of rain But a sound as it fell in the grass Ere the crops of the whole world were sere. All of the grain in the land Is caught and locked away in the earth And the great ear that has ears for rain Listens alone for the rain-dew's song. But all the souls of men, God wot, Are grasses that the rain covers As it falls from the torn sky. But when the wild wind blows From the spot where the locked in wood Gnashes its thirtieth kind, There is tearing and snapping and breaking Of the trees as the wild winds break. And the earth shakes like a ripe fruit That has no place to rest. A man, O, have some pity on me Who have been turned to a tree, The only thing that I can be To the sons of men. You know, O trees, that I was once As a man with the sons of men. There, not so high, but I have no doubt That some one misses me, For I hear faint steps in the dew, And, as I sit, I feel a kiss Upon my hand as light as a feather. If I should die And all my sorrow go away, If Death should take me with the rest And cover me as he covers you, Would you not miss me and mourn me, O Oershadow me with a tear? If I should die And my death should not be, Would not all my sorrow go away, Would not all my care begin, O would you not remember me When I am gone away? O what have we given That we should have such sorrow As to keep giving, And to suffer and wonder As we have borne it? For we have looked on the glory Of the face of the Master, And have smelt his breath. For you, dear man, you gave Your heart and soul That you might live; You did not know how or why-- And now you are dead And you are dead, Dead--dead--dead. But in the future untried, When you and I Go to the war, You will give me a part, For my heart and soul Will be yours. Peace, readier than peace, Readiness is fighting, Dying at a better time; Till the whole earth and sea Join in the struggle, They win no fame, Win no honour. Fire, but with the fruit of a humble heart, That does not grow proud, Pride will never repay you for the price You have made to your self. Still, as a man of war, Still I bear in my heart That which will not repay. And does not her soul Speak as the wind that flits by the sea, All aware of her fate? Not as the mourner turned hero, Whose face in disguise Is seen by the unawed skies. She is content; That is enough for me. Drink to the sons of the land, Who toil and fight and love To serve the people's needs; Readiness, with a heart that grows calmer Each minute of the day; Ready, at all times, To meet the face of fate, And help to win the day. You remember in the golden days of youth When we could fly through the sky, When our wings did twice cover the breadth of the earth; But the sorrows and the dark old fears Have taken hold on our strength. They have robbed our desire Of its youth and of its fair promise. There is little left in us That can meet the morning's glory, Or meet the evening's evening. The year 2000 saw us at our best; We traveled long at over ninety miles an hour; And we could boast of a smaller cost each day Than the likes of which we see at present; And a plentiful year could we hope to see In the not too distant future. The motley were our leaders then, As our fastest who can match our leaders now! But we've lost the expertise of those days, And for this we have gained a measure of foresight. So a humble and confident air Is fair game to attack; For we're all--as young boys were then-- Walking a minefield of life. The wind of the future was moist at first, But since then has increased in strength and place Till we find we can neither avoid nor meet The stealthy racing of the storm; And if wrath should close in with our worst foes We shall meet them disguised in another shape. O for a wisdom that can meet danger now, As the brave young boys of old did on the mount! But how shall we gain this wisdom, if they Who were wise in old times should come back and ask The question, "Who was wise in old times?" Or, "What is it to be wise?" The sage of twenty wise men Could not say to each, "Dare you ask me?" So they stopped asking the question. We have gone further on this journey of ours Than the boys of twenty years ago; And our speed has decreased more rapidly, But our loss is greater than their gain; For each meets us disguised as a boy Who has gone someplace he cannot tell, And we cannot find where he has been. We can see the flags of steamers Through the branches of trees overhead, But we cannot find the place of all Where they hid the wise old days. And we thought we knew the world because we knew Our fathers, and we knew the day because They told us it was night; <|endoftext|> A dread rumbling underfoot. I will go back and deliver to your house what you have left to eat. I will not be denied. My monstre will have learned to take what I give her. I will go back and see if my mother has anything left. I can go far from this place there where it is easy for her to leave, my home that seems unfinished. I will return and serve up the one last time. <|endoftext|> "Footsteps of Angels", by Rosmarie Waldrop [The Body, Love, Heartache & Loss, Romantic Love, Nature] 1 One is so lonely, alone, and sorrowful who wakes each morning in a sanctuary of bare green grass that scrubs silently before him, as if a demon whispered shutting itself off inside. The other is sleeping with three lovers whose faces beneath red and white blotches of silk: then what he sees is not a chapila, but six white feet in the sacred water, white hands supporting him. 2 Tears glisten on her lashes and she holds her pocketbook out of the bus. How absurd to be carrying so much in such a tight bag. She wonders if God is a sucker for hoarding. She knows she should be talking to a man. She wonders if God exists. 3 I carry God in me like a big beast at the back of me sleeps a big beast who won't awaken until after I've gobbled all the flesh from the bones of the three lovers. I've held God like an elephant and it struts and irks in my pocket. I carry God in the purse that blocks my thoughts. 4 If I could talk to God about love He would of course answer my vague questions and lead me to the end of my road. But each time I try to confront God He slips away from me, reappearing as an echo at the end of the street, or as a shadow behind me on the steps, or on the path, or in the clearing just beyond the window. <|endoftext|> "Rose", by Rose Fyleman What do you see when you look at me? A pink rose, felled in the garden, blossoming for an hour, a little rainbow scattering sunbeams on its lifeless leaves, a few wild bees floating in the stem— A rose, a small girl, and God. And are you satisfied with the answer? No, not really. Do you feel somehow let down by the blossoms that touch your fingers? Let down by the distance, the way the rose is a tiny floating galaxy in your purse, a pale sky of oblongs, a pale heaven of cards, where rosebursters emerge out of a dream of perfumed bubbles, wet and letting go. Do you feel cheated when you turn away from the oblong worlds, disappointed with the wingspan of the black wings folded over the rose, folding it down into a vase of buds, closed in a long style of rose presentation? Are you satisfied? <|endoftext|> "Butter", by Sue Ellen Thompson What butter your face smells of must be heaven. That we're only doing decent by you here. I think I'd rather gorge myself on it. That's why I bring you the forkful. <|endoftext|> "Monarch", by C. D. Wright Mad for the ladies, Tip had helped me carry the water—Mammoth-sized bucket, two-foot-long hose!—three villages down the Alabama flats. We started in a ditch, hewed-block and corrugated, two lane miles of nothing going anywhere, a waste-gate lost and immovable. Folks were leaving in what appeared to be one piece, except for that three-quarter piece sliding down the buckboard like the hinge of a bevel. But we made it to the road, where we found our first icy bed, a block-brown queen, barreling toward something she must be, well, bearding, or birthing, I wasn't sure. We paused to fill the tank, maybe, then hammered a nail, stripped to the waist, tramped, pointed, pawed, spread-eagled, back and forth, across the driveway, out the cul-de-sac, then out the back, down a sliver, over a fence, and we stopped yet again, at the finish, at the hand-go-downs, with just the breeze we'd been waiting for, to climb into our winter hide, at the majesty of water, a long slender river we pulled ourselves free of, not entirely sure where, but something wider, whose sweep, whose breadth, whose ambition it was, that swept back, we wanted to know, down this tinder-soaked bank, down this country road, a road the color and shape of nothing, just the bare twigs and leaves, lie of trees, lie of soil, old-old-bear, shine of sun, shadow of shadow, the formlessness of space, of field and water, a primordial vale, not really a river at all but space, maybe a field, whose plants we wanted, whoed and wailed and sucked, the damn things sucked us back, let us help ourselves to their pollen and leave-up and down and mixed-seed and rootball, water we sucked from and froze, keeled and stayed keeled, whoo whoo the earth gave and got. We carried it all three days and nights through, drank of it, ate of it, drank again when a day broke where the sun grew close, the sun made close the day that the sky had dared close. And Tip, he was hardy too—cold all night and hard, ate and lay in the day, drank of it, a little at night when the daylight led. And Tip, he was all that, not so old, not haughty, spoke the language of the days we lived, breathed the slant light of the hours we listened, the white sound of water we splashed into clay that the plants sucked back to size and bloom and shade. We were a bundle of seldust, a raggedy raft the skies gave us, tipped by strangers into the Arkansas sunset, the big quiet prize that we carried and left, our names forgot in the Arkansas night. <|endoftext|> "Right to Try", by Don Kogen [Living, Health & Illness, The Body] When the watchful nurse has stopped searching for the cause of a death, when she has looked, by pressing out the pearl-pale flesh, into the hidden world below, When she has lifted from the lumps and blisters the weary patient from the hard floor, When she has slipped a cast-iron pan from the clamped door, and the rain-softened, wearily smiles, When the night opens the prison gate and the ward seems the daylight—try to think of this, think of the right to try. Try to think of the earth as a firmament, try to think of the heaven above as firmamentally sure, try to stop, when the hard thud from the bed below sounds toward the awakened deaf prisoner, lift to the thought of what the watchful nurse forgot. <|endoftext|> "The Council of Rams,", by Don Kogen [Nature, Social Commentaries, History & Politics] <|endoftext|> with gray morning skies— Pray when you marry, my love, and leave your native place. We have long suffered, deepened and deepened, from the sudden rain, the hazy and sweet rains. We do not remember our lost pleasures, we do not remember the fair men. O fair, O light, You shut in you so dearly, when the ghosts walk by night, we love the shadows of you. You catch us, with the shadow of you, the closing of doors and blinds, we feel the passing of you in the fair rainy air. <|endoftext|> "Pupils", by Mary F. Mize [Nature, Animals] Classroom of light, little halo of rain on the fields, that knowledge brings. Rain keeping its distance. But if I had a planet, that rain I could control the dimmer lights of a field as it drenches a yellow plant, something gold falls from a sky: gold leaves, green lines. <|endoftext|> "Symptoms", by Mary F. Mize [Social Commentaries, War & Conflict] 1. CHECKPOINTS The children begin checking properties for bombs, for snipers, for booby traps: who can sleep in a house without them? 2. THE BAR Outside it's getting dark, the football field in its weeds and sand, and a makeshift bar set like an omen on its tip: something hits it, knocks it over, no one bogey yet, but this afternoon there is something coming toward us, the usual soon followed by oh, and oh, and oh, and the bar seems to make us the targets, but we are the stars, the new witnesses. <|endoftext|> "In Remembrance", by Paula Siegert [Living, Death, Infancy, Parenthood] For my wife Early on the night of Mother's death I sat on the dirty couch, under the portrait of her beloved husband, and held his little face in my palm. He had no voice or eyes, but in my embrace his ribs shone, squashed by my palm, as the crusted blood sifted down like rain. Three weeks later I found his little hands and fingers ripped and scarred from handling fertilizer, and hugged them to my breasts as if he had discovered them before me, then felt his small body, warm and breathable. Last night I smelled his dead breath, his sticking tongue, the stench of his last days sifting through the cracked pane on our broken marriage, his breath close your eyelids, he said, he will never kiss you again, and I closed mine, again. 3. Of our years together nothing exists except the yellow jacket of his big hands, round from thumb to finger-tip, the smooth rise of his chest, the ridge of his spine. 4. I'll hear in the master bedroom the slow heat transfer from the sun to the back of my neck. The strange light is warming the long sleepless widow as she dreams of other days, of other bodies. He is the third of his kind I have loved the most, after my father and mother, and though I know he will not return my longing, he still moves through this life in my dreams, loves my thoughts, my small talk, my eye contact. How strange he is, what little he says, little letters he leaves me, none of which are lies. When he first came into this life I had just returned from a two year travail in hospitals and orphanages, and being returned to the barrenness of this farm in the blinding light of autumn left me disoriented, but now that he has died he makes the tedious circle of my thoughts, like the important housewife I always thought I would be. 5. Two weeks after his death, still longing for the touch of his warm body, I lie on my back beside the fire, and breathe into the flames his last words, O, small boy, all my life I have been told that our bodies are nothing, that we have no dignity, no pain, no sense of touch and now he says, O, little brother, I was wrong to think that our bodies were nothing. He thinks that this story is for me only. 6. He found a man that morning dying on the road. He carried the man out of the wheat fields past the sting of burning stalks, the smell of the sick, the drooping eyelids, the fierce sun shining down like a boot-heel on the backs of children and horses blowing on the ground in a red, burning river. He carried the man for all of seven miles before he too died. 8. We would lie in bed, and he would say, How far is it now? And I would say, Eighteen miles. That was the longest that I had lived. He would say, So dark, how do you keep sleeping? And I would say, I try. Sometimes. Sometimes I wake up and move my legs, rub my eyes and look at the sky. Then I go back to sleep. The quiet night is a word. It means nothing. 9. Nothing is quiet. Outside the city the clouds move like skeletons. He runs through the wheat fields dragging a plank with a bird of prey on its string, the bird biting its prey, then flying away. The words of his story race toward the lantern-colored houses toward the mills and factories, then the deep hollows of the dead sea, then an old white woman in her shroud, panting now into her hand. The wind hands him his reason and hands me mine. Yes, I am the white woman or the widow. No, it is the wind who says this, before I can say anything. The house is empty. Out of the memory of men I have built this house. Wind and fire and rain and sunlight, who could love us if not for love? You have left me nothing, let me go on loving you. You have taken from me everything that I have lost. But even though I love you, you are not who I thought you were. No wonder I cannot forget you, even with my prayers. 10. At night a naked man comes out of the sea and sleeps on the stone steps by the church. I follow him through the dim ocean through the mottled seaweed to the moon, where I fling myself onto the wet sand that he has fallen into. His naked body is a red clay. My naked body is water and ocean. The two of us lie there, naked, not speaking. What should we say? 11. We follow the plank of the sea bird, who is taking his break in the wetness of the sea. I can hear the deep voice of him sipping the saltwater. His voice seems satisfied. It says: Stand beside me, lover. His white feathers have started to accumulate. The dead man has grown old. We stand by the sea shore. I am covered in the sea dirt. The plank of the sea bird has climbed up the steep stone wall and is lying on the sand. The dead man's body is covered with white ashes and sea grass. His naked body has turned over in the sand. We are both filthy. He throws a handful of sea dirt into the air and watches it spread. I am covered in the sea dirt. We are both ashamed. We touch our faces and say: I’m sorry, lover. I say: I am sorry. We take off our clothes and lie there in the open sun. 12. When the city lights are drawn, I lie on the hot white beach, pretending to be drowned in the sea. The sea is crying and piteous. All day I listen to it, desperate and loud. It says: Look at me. I am also like you. I too am alone. I wash myself slowly. 13. I heard the sea singing when the city lights were dark. I could no longer hear it, but still it sings. At night when the city lights are drawn, I lie on the hot white beach and do not worry about being alone. I say: When the city lights are dark, how will I be lonely? 14. Sea weeds grow in the saltwater. In the open ocean, there is no shortage of clean water, but people always die of thirst. How can you live if you have to drink saltwater? I drink seawater to drown myself <|endoftext|> Unequal destiny! Still you dream of our good nature, That we should rule, to the injury Of our fellow creatures-- While we starve the rest for want of Meat! "'Look here!' quoth my wife--for lo! behold A new-made skirt for Fiona's gown, White,--and a new-made moccasins, Blue,--and a new-made house for me, Clay-coloured; and lo, my friend, My house and all I dream of, fair, New-made indeed! "Then in came a man, girt in leather, Blunt-bended bow in his hand, And in was his custom'd spear: 'Men,' quoth he, 'a traveler hither From distant lands, coming this way, This foot, that falleth that, I know, Nothing amiss. "'Men wonder what is the cause Why that strange shape likely maketh His cavern at this hour.' 'Sir,' quoth my wife, 'is it true What they tell us?--Bethink you What wise men told us erewhile? That all the hills and mountains dark Out of his head turn pale at dawn, And dusk proceeds to devour His body with a fire?' "'Why,' said that blunt-bended bow, 'Sir, this they meant to say--yea, They meant this one must. For mark His footsteps here--how like to those Of Simon Peter, walking-figure, Known to Latin and Greek 'A little fruit-stall on each stand Will keep a man for you, good sirs, Who looks for no man's bad purpose!' "'But then,' my wife said, 'if flesh Be nothing, then where lies the sin? Will these enfold no worse evil? --But, friends, the talk is endless: Take my advice--leave the hill, And travel the mile or two more, To gateways in your town, and mark, How like the shape is that they say, Thick-set against the piny darkness, Examining a stand.' "With shut eyes I saw her go, Saying, 'Now, once again, O friends, Do ye wonder that I stray? I must see where Peter stands On Golgotha--and here must die! Be of good cheer, O believers, To-morrow ye shall meet again! For lo, I am in heaven! behold The little robe upon my vestment "Thus, brethren, thus be of good cheer! Lo, I have spoken with my Lord, And then, the intruders cease; Though deep down the pit of hell they roam, It cannot hide them from our sight! Brothers, I say once more--do ye hear?-- Even now I sound for your love, And would more boldly yet appear, So to proclaim my love, again I speak, and dare not refuse.' "We rose to leave, but she was gone, The neighboring nuns were there alone, She, with her cross, on a sort of seat, Among the tombstones; but behind, We saw the barred gate of the grave, And there all silent seemed to be, They as still as the dead themselves! And still she said, with a voice of pain, Her words were too weak, her cry of anguish Could reach our ears no longer. I could hear Her weeping through the night of pain, Sobbing out each word that wounds, so near It trod on the life that must not die. "Again her voice was heard, more weak and weak, But this time accompanied with tears, How should I but have wept with her! With her for months of hopeless life It had been agony; she even took The cross she wore so sad a heart to wear, To ease her soul of its heavy load, And let the world go by unnoticed. We left and never more saw her enter, Or leave our cloisters; the monks know all That disturbs us here, and take their part, Yet not a hour behind or before. "Most things are changed since then; and you, my child, This very hour may see yourself A light unfading in the sky, And hear me speak and feel me touch, Again, and understand my heart, And know my words and ways. O life! O love! O pure love for maidenhood That makes you holy, and renders holy The very touch that sanctifies! Is it not glorious to be loved thus? To know that all that sacred is Is only earthly touching of a child, Is it not glorious to have known you, To have known the memory of our love, To have my heart blest like a father's, And you my love, once more my own? "Not only to have known, but to have loved, Is it not glorious, to have lived with her To have dropped into this life anew, In place of some lost sister? She will miss My presence, but not entirely, she knows I am not wholly dead. "Yea, though I am not wholly dead, But buried in some ruin weird and old, I am a thousand times more glad, I am a thousand times more proud to be her lover than I was Before, and feel my new-won liberty Like dew on the green shoots of the earth, and like The shadow on the waves. I have a home to go To, rather than be now again dispersed. I am the man her wildest words aggrandized, I am the man her envy loved, the man Her reverence. Oh, never let me be disgraced As was that scion of honor who was jilted, The man who seemed to all her eyes like heaven, The pride of all her words. "Never let my heart erode That my brother's blood may fail, Never let that long-tried soul go out But to glory's triumph, Let all my acts be but sweet caresses Of my heart's dearness; And I shall ever live The honored son of that wronged bosom. And she will love me." The world paused, and all the world was mute, So he took a new speaker, and new speakers Went to and fro with a boundless conduct In all directions about the twain that were, But never meeting or parting. Now, but a little time ago These were the twin speakers; these were they That sang and nurst the babe; Now, but a little time ago They were the twins again, Throwing off and on, tossing, Trembling, laughing, rejoicing. "O twins," said they, "whom dust hasreshronzed, "Even as you, beloved, we mourn! "Therefore we re-murmur, wasting not "But to check the loss that would fall. "Yet let us do without delay "The old celebrating, choral service, "The old obsequies, services done, "Laid up in books and thrown a-ground. "We have heard it said (but you know "We never cared for such anyway) "That on this very night he died, "In New York, on that very day, "He departed suddenly, "As if he would never more "Come back, his journey having taken. "'Twas in the dead of night, "Death entering the door, "That made them one. "We took him to our room "And both, with fear and trembling, "Fondled him, fondling, seizing, "The moon above our heads, "As if the boy would perish then, "'Tis here,' we thought, 'at last we'll lay "The dear fellow, finished with!" But 'twas ever morning came, "Morne's coming,' he cried, "Backward, to me, meseemed, "Than past control was speeded, "The fair boy met his death. "That hour's in the morning, "If meseems that it's day." "Ay, ay," we said, "This fits the bill!" So, all that day and the next, A shadow followed him, A glimmering shadow, catching His every look and motion, One after one; and, as he went (Unconsciously, he suspected it) Him, gathering, seemly gained, Until at last, the unreal Filled up the whole sight, And past him, came the wan moon, And past him, the lost stars. So when they came to that house again, The gates were locked and barred, And on no wheel of any steed Did any hoof press west, So all was still as death That bed had made. I think I saw his dying face Seen but his dying breath, But one may dream so; For none had heard his voice. He lay there staring up at the moon; There was no sound along the lane <|endoftext|> The land-ward wall lies defaced, The gate-post's welded. What has become of the millionaire? He doesn't come home to the terrace On winter nights. He may come to the gardens of his villa And muse in their flowers, But there are the gates of the Eternal Church Filled with followers No doubt it was the honour of the battle That won it for us; The bells of our cathedral And the distant stones of Killarney's grave Attract us still. What grows there? A windy plant That climbs the pale laurustaff That Seamus had as a present For getting well. If he'd foreseen it, and he must know That just because he wrote one poem And led his horse against an army That some must follow, They are finding horses still. I wish I wasn't Going out to see them; I am, for I'm afraid What I came for was here. I do remember standing by that cross Where Seamus died And Seamus' voice was heard to call me Come in, please, come in! There was a parcel in my Hand of poetry that never Seemed to go to waste. Here are a selection; take Some of Seamus G. O'Toole's best, "The oil-of-breath story", by Edmond Jabès [Poetry & Poets] Squire Voland, a gentle one, Was passing by Alfernus' farm On his way homeward, one day. His hair was turning gray. He saw no one, but he heard A sound of weeping, then a knock Deep down that valley reached, The gate swung wide, and forth A woman came, her face Hidden by her cloak, beside The river-edge. "Ashen-bow," said the Baron, "The mighty Voland is living Still at Alfernus'." So saying, to her feet He led her, and into the house The two entered, and there sat down On the dark polished seat. Out on the lawn the neighbors came At a sudden call to see Some mighty noble's mistress, With a glorious veil about her And her arms behind her. But there was not a moan or voice Save the knell of the hanging bell That was calligraphed each morn To tell of Christ the Lord, And the flutes in the fountain, And all the hoofs that pass, When the wain has reached the place Where from the burial-place Of the old world in the West The Assisi cowl hangs over, From that tall tower. The wan sunlight of morning Had blotted from her face The first rich hues of youth, But she recognized the lines That fixed each broken line And fixed them there for her, And fixed them fair. Her laugh had died away, But no one doubted that there was Deep meaning in that laugh For all the years to be. She told of Rome, the late Fascis, And the thirties Caesar; Then of a poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Who, with his wild unknown word Burst on the world, and said, "Let universal ruin come." She talked of God and the world's fate, And Time and Destiny, And wars not coming to blows, And living forever; And the soul's fate, she said, Which none may free or seal Without the mystic sigils Worshiped by Grecian priestesses, And by certain Japanese maids. She said that Time was written In words as beautiful As any that Adolph saw In the magic of Beethoven; That Destiny was sealed In the old Enright book And Destiny was spurred forth Upon the world to be. She said that sorrow dwelt In the hearts of poets, As in human heart trees That know no meddling taws. She talked about these things, And a whisper heard among The kindred company That Voland dwelt still among That bower of green that frets Between the clouds and sun And drinks the rivers' shine; That, a great power of kings, Voland had traveled far To that still old Christian place, That Grecian pile, that tower On Pier Zumbert, the olden, The great Enright home. She heard them talk in vague And open words that half-loosed The unholy things that creep Into our human hearts. She saw how all that fled To the Holy Places, and closed The ancient ways, were flitting now Back through the silent doors Of hidden Pratoeks Across the footsteps grey, Unwonted in the moonlight here, Where Voland went to pray. And, soft and low and clear, Still as a Sabbath bell, Or small apostrophe made by a voice Over the floor of some old room In cathedral format, It came to her, in midsummer clear, As over tower and spire it came At first, an anthem for Rome. For Voland saw the Greeks were coming, Or that these or those, with hoofs strong, Might in the fields of pasture chase, Moved by a beating of wings The distant dust of desert stretches down, Past where once Cassino's land ended In the Urals, to their prairies white Where the tall prairie-grass waves like silver, And winds and waves long tousled grasses beat At the rising of giant cities bright In the four winds of the four corners of the world. They drew near; but his land was one among many, And the dull sun scorched; and at night, when a sword Of sudden fire would have filled his sky, A chill wind blew from the frozen North, And at the quailing of his golden crest An eagle dipped its broad, pale wings. There the host of his dreams went by; And with the strange, wild silence of God Voland saw yet more majestic grow The shadows of that mighty Shaker Of earth and thought, the Holy Lord; For, had he not, as a man has eyes To see for what he may, he might have known The Lamb of God, when it should be slain, Should be for ever wounded on the tree. And over all he saw the triumphant Shadow of death cast over all of him, Who thus should be a mortal. He saw how Death, when he should have consumed Heaven and earth, Would leave his human mate, And rise as a god to judge the last, A glorified, human face, Surprised by Voland's own soul. Again the quiet light wind blew, And went again to farm and field; And in the same old place, He saw before him, only now On tiptoe, side by side With eased red lips, the priestess-like, The Volant woman stand and sing; While lightly springing toward him, he, As from a trance, was aware of both, Pass by, and pay no mind, Save that she bowed her burning head And smelt of heavenly birth, and all her world Was like the light of lilies blown In fragrant night across silver streams, Where lute and lyre, woven sounds and lustres, Had arisen from far-off misty vaults, And rung around her psalms, and kissed Her feet, and cast before her feet, And cast a flower-like spell around her, With all their wreathed dragon heads, And blossomed snakes and serpents sweet, And hollow leaves and goldfish shining bright Against the amber-winged crown Of her pure head, that held apart Her locks like wreaths of harvest-harvests, And red roses strung among them, And lilies full of rich perfume, Holding them well aloft, and loving them With eyes for only Volant kisses, And lips that shook away their roses And crumbled in sweet hands all their dew Into the sea of amber; and he knew Why this still land lieth yellow there Between the host-faltering seas of sunset And the blue trout-lipped trout-streaming lakes That drip their slime and lave the reeds That wave like fronded hemicles O'er slippery strands of opal And naiads twine their coiling locks And sing in gliding line To wind and reedly zephyr That blows coldly downward through the glades, And where the fettered kings are laid, Bound hand and foot, And murmuring hypnotists that go With glimmering flags above their heads O'er paths that flutter in Light scents of moss and fern and fern That wander, endlessly, in and out Corrupted with scarce a rain-drop; And in dim lakes that whirl and gleam 'Neath green, shifting mists like dead lips Of blind, silly ghosts, whose clouded forms Are haunted, ere the bright, fierce sun <|endoftext|> the life of an airy-fairy. I heard the game he played, whose ever memorable cries arose most often in the confusion, the tenor of which I had not heard. To Siena, with its forest corniced on three sides by the water Tiber, was Marsilius come for the harvest. Where the ropes of Arbor Domitior hung overhead, his crews were setting up the great tyvek huts--a craft larger and better made than ours, and faster. Our spars were shorter, our masts were low, that of Tyre the better, and I, like a daw, had crept from the chestnut planting to the corn. Among my spars I stretched my lame limb, and with the gnat's motley foot kicked lightly. Down through the low sky and over the foam our few ships skimmed and sailed as pictured here. But these I left, and marked not what came. Again, on the very plain where he first encountered me, my blind face turned. A chief of Pyrrhus' train by the name of Pyrahus, whose sword was flamed like fire, challenged me, saying, "Come meet with me, and I will prove to whom of lesser kin I may comply." Though it was hardly worth my while to come, and leave it unprofitable, so Pyrahus courteously still sought me; and I, that he might not forever be able to make me forfeit, felt no hesitancy to meet him. But meeting him I lost all hope: he charged me short and light of limb, and no more accorded my jocund gait. When Socratic thinking's rule disturbed me much, Plato's teaching almost seemed a divine outrage. Thee old Democritus answers In "A dialogue between a man and a woman": "Of destiny some faith, perhaps, Would be profitable to thy questioner, The eternal forces, working each on each, Not only beings, but events, Of which thou canst know certain things, though in deceptive guise, Through his fair eyes who is indeed of mortal birth, But is so misled by his human folly. Fraud is not of divine execution. God permits not that which he disposes To be realized by human effort; On the contrary, he lays down rules For us, how to recognize the things he wills. Of true causation, then, he lays down these principles: To know where he is going he strives to know Where he is growing and of whence, though often Abiding in silent solitude. If thou examinest The matter minutely, thou wilt find that to his motion all Things revolving around him, both are onward guided. Simple and intimate as the working of his soul Is his human circle of eight revolving orbs. To know the forms of these, a man must either see His light round itself and name the path it runs, Or else see it in one unmoved and name it "way." But what if this way be all the paths men use, All paths by which from A to B they come to A? Yet as many ideas, therefore, are contained In this species of the material world, As there are modes of motion: so the more Diffuse and various are conceived to be The structures which in earth and heaven consist. And even to this lower world, which looks So small compared with the orbs which go Out of its furthestouver, since the sun's Bright eye in its remotest verge encloses So small a space (in comparison with suns Others much larger) of demiurage, Men have dreamed a shadowy world to shine, In which each thing shines through its proper forms. This is the fable, which, namely, gives Earth its sensational history: - Not indeed from any ghostly image Or tapestry of legend, did those regions rise, Ere they were visited of men and gods. They are as old as country; as old As man, which makes more worthy of commemoration The less we know of them, the more we prize Their offer of annihilation. From them We receive new light on nature, fresh lessons In unity, and aid in sacred sacrifices. We shall review them with a fulness of delight, If we be faithful to the Golden Legend, Which shows our present unity, our future hope. Short is man's lease on life; he wanes As do the longest hues of day, And, in the escape from moorning, breaks. Hail, holy lands! O wisest Fates! Is this the spot, where loving hearts Shall together rise, and shed Their blood for thee? and scatter roses? Here, to human pride foiled, we owe Many a bright moment lost, In storms which shook our thoughs keener, And reft us of our purest soul. Our mother, with what sorrowing, She looked for us, when none other Had hope in such extreme need! No sin to us was darker than our brother's, Who fell upon that night of woe. Here, once again, we saw the interior Of our fall, when all was still. This church is here, that rose above Religion, which its founder meant To keep beyond the church's call, A place of prayer, and sanctuary. Where were the altars, which had made This gorgeous fabric feel so holy; And vacant them, till time had scattered All memory of them quite away. Then, fresh from Heaven, this wonderful place of God Was made; and not a few shrines are there, Whose story's not unsaid on its walls. But still, the place stands rich with treasure, And in repose it towers above others. Long may it sheltered be, and strong! Its beautiful graceful arch of steel Is home of the dead, who used to hark Its organ music in the morn, When they desired to feel something near, And thought 'twas Heaven, but could not see it. And many still desire its peace! But let us hope, that, after many a year, When the dark clouds of the intervening years Grow black around its ruins, it may Be taken, with such sanctities of her own, As no unsevered relic may endure. Thou, that hast made my dwelling such a home For me as none beside myself can know, O sacred and unutterable spot! Where naught can wound us, but (all may see) Her wounds have made thee loved to the core. And thou hast linked the hearts of my heart and thine, Twined them as anything can be bound, In boundless, indissoluble chain! And thou hast joined (O holy symbol!) hands With that sweet heart of thine, to make one More precious than the fondest dream, That dwells in thy arms, as jewels do, Pendant and pendants of delight. Her turn she was to speak. "But what boots To bid me love, since thou didst make Mine heart thine?" quoth she, replying, And all her beauty and disdain. "Mine heart," quoth he, "is happy here, And thou art miserable, proud! What joy could come to me from thee, What comfort to my soule, if go And dwelt in a heart not thine own? Myself, if I loved thee, would be blest, And not be blest with thee; as is she, Who with her own blessing doth exalt Her own full virtue. What reward Of love to me could ever be, If I liked thee less for love than will? More loves, if I love thee still, may I, And love more long, ere this shall end." Now, to content her burning wish, He silvered soft the lace he wore, Where the good knight, in page-land trim, In token sheweth his espousal, And prays him, should he take her hence, That he would not despise her there, But keep her as his lady fair. "Now, by my troth and by my head," Says Bertold, "since to be kneelen, I yield my heart, and would not bear To see thee maimed and wretched. Forth into the field I'll fare, And meet thee there; so be thou lief, That I have gone so far to seek." "No, no," she answers, "he'll not go. My heart in you I set as mirtle rest, As far as on my behalf can lay. He loves so well his sportive mood That he has thrown all scathe to bow To love's command; and this is lief, Because his will hath made him so. Enough for me, if now I have Intended rightly his command." "Fain would I be that warrior's bride," Quoth he, "whose stripling pride outshone <|endoftext|> A tangled, complex work, of which His is but one section, and that one Is imperfectly known to us, alas! And my brother's other hand is white! Where is thy piety? Thou art not, like me, More proud of thine iniquity. We are All sinful, and none can boast of much Except he whom grace hath made perfect. My prayer is as thou seest; it calls on thee To tell thy secrets, and to show me where I err, or where I merit blame. I am Asleep, and not awake, so that my soul Holdeth her peace, save as my lips do speak And like a spectre in an unlovely place Sitteth cold and sorrowful, waiting for death To take and slake and purge her deep erring flame. Thou dost not comfort me. My soul cries For light and news of thee. In a blind, Bleak, deep dark cottage I have slumbered long, And thy bright lamp hath spred a strange blue wreath Of haze above the dim simulated sky. The twilit nook is not a place befitting A beggar's visitor, keeper of poor, Or one who longs for fellowship with the poor. Should I touch back again the harvest and fields, The chaff and tares, what would my heart endure? What hardship would I undergo, what fears Attend me as I climb the broad road again? To climb a hill, whose summit should be thine, And steal the gold, that from the Pharisees Is tax exempt, from the asses' feet? What hinders me? I am not limited then By the wounds of the cross. Who art thou, say, That dost my neighbor's need and speak'st me? With such glad voices, throngs more large continue, Held back by fear. We enter and enter there And through a lowly door there comes a cry: "Come forth Gomo, thou that know'st the land, And now do wisdom, and the livelong day Speak wisdom to us." We in silence hear That and the sounds assembled there before us. The Teacher then, whom once a covetous soul And vain desires rode in and darkened my eyes, Came with his words of wisdom, unrolled the scrolls, And read from the large, lituious volume, delectable To eyes and ears: "The acorn falls, don't loiter." That he might catch me quickly, a swift longing Sped in me the Master, and he said to me, "Hast thou beholden our Acorn?" And with voice Scarcely audible, "Y" he answered, "and how?" Then did I hear and see; and a heavenly sight Filled me, such as nothing can fill, when with sound Of water falling and of rain and air in drops, The waters of the Mediterranean at monitions Fall, and the mirks and muruses mix their sounds. The sun had hid his head, and no cloud westward Was floating, turning, or waning on the lake. It pleased God to keep his shore yet unespied, Where scarce the mermaid's skin American can catch, Or little fishes murmur. Behold us bursting Through banks of verdure, climbing hill by hill, Eager to tell our wonders. The sacred lake Now was our crowded ship. Fruits of every kind, Vegetable-berries, mighty purple cauliflowers, Subtle white-clover leaves that reach to where The long, green leaves of oxalis meet, were there, And flowers, blue, red, or yellow. We weary; he Writes: "As one drops pebbles in the sea, Yet cometh afterward the paddle of an oyster; So, ye drops of honey in the waters of life, Come ye to the lips of us." We in weariness Saw the bright houses upon the water. The priest Sang rit warra to the peacocks; they echoed it. Here the ocean seemed a glorious rose, and there Dipped its red heels in the wine-of-Christ. Laughter rang From house to house. He that read the parable Brought the jars, and on them were cast the coins, The sacks of silver and of gold. We filled the jars. "O Father," said he, "O King of Paradise! Gather ye to me here the leftover fragments Of every table in the world." We heard no more. The merry bells were bending in the skies When we arrived, and the hour of midnight there Appeared to us when the pink star sank down, And each of us stretched out in the dusty ground Huddled alone, waiting till the sleep should come Unceasing. Sudden the heavens seem to side With darkness; and the beat of a little horn Sounds across the night. We hear, and tremble. We cannot move. The Angel appears. He sits Before us. We cannot see his form, but he Seems to us a sort of man, we understand That he is sent to us for advice, and to bid Him who presumes on living to be cautious. God has given him such high functions. At times He resembles one appointed to the Keys Of Paradise, and with such solemn voice He tells us that we are not to disobey The Emperor of Russia. We dread his sentence. How many years will he keep us, we wonder, When he a prisoner takes us? Will it be now Or will he take us later? Do we want him now? He is so persuasive. We would be his wives, And share the hospitality of his home, Whether he sits at table, or, whether he Discovers that unguessed loneliness which Is loneliness for all men. He is not like The cruel Pharaoh or the savage Gambia, He is not they who would drag us to the desert, Chains and all. He is merciful. "O virgin sisters," he said, "Thou hearest me well, and what I dreamt, believe That I dreamed not. If I sinned, the sinner is not I. "The sin I have repressed, if that may credential My own forgiveness, I am here for thy sake To heal the wounds inflicted on thee, beneath the rod Of chastening. If I did sin, I repent me now. Go thy ways, dear friends, and in thy travels see What poverty may poor ones understand. "Give now thyself wholly up to prayer and to fasting. Attend one year to the rites of Mecca. If this is not sufficient, go with equal care Into the Yemen or the land of the Moors, or 'mid Egypt, Miakdad, and the land of the Lapps, and join With the poor who in Al-Masjid of Asker live, While the great earth yawns untilled. Go, humble thyself, And steal thy bread by propitious spirits. "And when thou hast delivered up thy goods abroad, Go with the she-captives to the low-lying islands Where the sea winds take their born waters. There are spirits Who live on sea-flowers, and have prayers to deliver From the bondage of their very poverty. Their food is sea-water, and their drink the air. Go, where the waters rise against the face of the shore, And the gulls flock; or, if a vessel prong out, Drive her to the islands, while thou keepest them Fast by the streams, and nourish them from the rocks. Or, if the waves be low, mount up upon the rafts, And row through the water, praying for a tall ship; Then bid her speed to the shore, and row again Toward the uplands. Then tarry not for clothing; But strip from bottom to the sheer-branching soles; And when thou hast finished thy journey, enter To the island. Thereth thou shalt find the Elders. They who by names of Caliban and Jim should be Elder statesmen of the country, whose purple eyes Should glitter like stars, and whose unrivaled arms Should be a terror, are sons of poor ignorant SLIM. They know not that their wisdom is a nothing Without virtue; nor would they go far from home To endanger themselves. These six also know That they would bear no daughters to the court, Nor any sons to college. They would die Or be killed. But, being poor, they have clothes, Wont, for their dress, the skins of three ungathered lambs. These six have learned to write with a blue stone, And have not learned to read; but the other three Are four sons of the richest of all cities; And their four sons have beaten them down to earth. Behold! the six on the island sitting down In the dust and in the sand; and the other three Climbing up over the mountains, and descending <|endoftext|> Anchored ship across the tide! We shall not meet! He lived in fields of daffodil and a wind-blown wattle-bloom; By June his corn-blows red with lupine outrolled a rainbow; On nights of storms he hid his lights by glistening boughs of poplar; He hung his sleigh and driver in a pine-tree azure, And listened till the landskip. In moonless nights he sped a-field, clasping the scythe to his breast, And such a rapid furrow He made with a single hand! Yet he was old and never stopped, and you never knew How many miles he had to go before the red was shining on the white of his hand. By dawn he was out of sight In a calm of warm blue haze, Or the edge of the bluer sea, Or the gray-green bounding hills; And, though he never brake From the edge of the mountain track He reached the yellow beach fair Before the low sun sank. And there on that sand he stepped, The red hand of the plow-blade Drawn at the yellow command, And there the dark red scythe-stroke B plunged and B shouted, and B did not heed the shouting, For B has never heard the voice Of B shouting so. Asleep at the wheel, on the brown branch of timbered old wood where the village bookstore stands and the houses of long had been And the gutted church with only sodden roofs and ghuts for support, I heard a step and looked up And there stood my brother, The fierce blue-eyed Scout He had been since he could hold a sword to a man when he was ten, And take him down again. And the Scout stood In the north window staring out At the slate-darkening road And the silvery soft gray-weed And the small dark boats In the shallow stream Rowing across the quiet gray road To a harbor where Across the soft gray road to a gray shore At the gray shore where the gray ships lay beside the gray hulls Of the gray ferries Rumbling to a touch at the helm He turned to me and said, "Why don't you climb on? On a Rango one never rests, one moves too close to the action, Out of the wind and the noise. "When the cari lua with its desert voice Spake to me over the wire I went to him with a song, 'Come up and sing to me, The Rango song you sang In the hills of Paestum.' "He sang the song, 'Sing it down if you will, But the song you sang In the hills of Paestum I must sing to you,' And the song he sang In the hills of Paestum At the gray ship By the gray shore In the gray ship In the gray shore The gray ship by the gray shore was too close to me. And all I could see And hear And touch Was the dim yell of the northeast gale That beat at the window pane. "It was silence, Too close for singing, And the Scout Held out his arms, Too close for hugging, And the song he sang In the gray ship In the gray shore was far too loud. "He lifted his singed hand I stared down at it I could not speak. I reached out but Could not touch The cool gray hand He lifted and began to sing The song I had heard him sing In the hills of Paestum. "What's this you say? What's this you say Now that your friend is here And home you've made That's quiet and happy As a home could be? You've made your New England home But the Riverside home Is better than either. "I'd let you have it! But the night-birds round the town Are singing better by us. The robins on the mahogany tree Are singing louder and clearer. And the crows and the chaffinches over In the morning are flying so free I'll let you have it, I'll let you have it." I let it go at that. There was never a need to worry. And I have wished, since then, That he might live to hear That song I sang him in the gray ship As it sailed from the bay. Just as I was coming to that, And falling into her, There were the first four notes of the guillemot. My heart stopped. And I thought "It's over now. It can't get no worse. He's going to be all right. It took him a long time to get used to the idea That there was another Mae Uls-er After the manner of the men from the White House. He was, to put it mildly, A little troubled at first. As if he had a headache, Or something of the kind. "Now," said he, "I'm all right. I'm all right, you bet. The hardest thing about this, After the fall, Is just getting used to it." There were a number of things That he hadn't yet learned to say. He said, "It's kind of horrid, As I've mentioned before. But I guess I'll get used to it. And besides," he said, "I guess that's how I am. It's my nature. And besides," he said, "I'm two-and-a-half feet tall." He had suffered a great deal In the way of defeats, As I think it must be for all of us. And as to defeat, He had suffered a great deal In the way of defeat. And it had almost become a part Of his nature. There were a great many matches, And many, I mean, Had to be decided by beanballs, At the Gardens or so. There was nothing that he had won Except, of course, the right To kick the ball down the valley. He had won it once, And then he thought He might have won it twice. He had lost it once, And then he thought He might have lost it thrice. Now there was only one Contender left in the race. "His arm was strong," said one. "Stronger than mine." "His eyes were bright," said one. "I had his all the time." "He could jump higher than me," says another. "And he could run faster than me," says another. "But he couldn't wrestle like me," says another. "He had all the tricks," says one. "I beat him once," says one. "I'd better not talk to him," says one. "I had him all by ragging," says one. "I had him on the grass," says one. "But that's all changed," says one. Once at the Polo, he gave A whole eleven good years. He'd nearly been speared in the season, Had not the master, Franco, Saved him by spending all the foreign I needed in local. And now, save his winter, He has never missed a kick. He has taken them up at will Into a mighty cloud Of danger overhead And then, when it thawed, He seemed to have the best Of all the Polo-Players. What's more, he has in all Been the most diligent. Which, if you consider You'll agree is very well. You may miss a day As much by carelessness As if you missed a year. And a kick from the deep just now Could well salvage a career, Not to say a life, If Miss C.P.R. has not got it already. She sees all kinds of things. She knows how the rope is parted And what never to be seen By anyone but her. She had a great many matches, And I suppose he did too. We heard they had ended, which made me very glad. He was a class act then. I saw how he had taken to the net, But all of a sudden it looks as if he is losing His sparkle and spunk. There are a lot of things one could say About his playing, but all I know Is this, that he was taught All his life to leap and to run. He was strong and nimble and clever. He was all that is fine and rare About a rugby player. I gave him the net for his kick, And I give him the ball for his run, But if there has ever been Any pleasure taken in finding That, in the present war, The masters of the "diamond" Have sometimes been discontented <|endoftext|> Discrete for the most part and walled in with trees As if a style were feigned for show; I liked the look Of the place when they showed it to me, and the landlady Stood all alone with my luggage; then we walked in the Beach path at the edge of the water out to the Strand. There was one house; on the farther side of the Water, by the dock, was the house I wanted. I knew it By a stamp on the box it came in--the stamp is long known, seen in all papers--it is the only one in London not inscribed "London" on the box. "T. D." marked it. I waited for you by the path at the edge of the Water. "What are you waiting for?" You responded "For whom." You had no trouble in admitting to me who you were waiting for, and I had no difficulty in asking. You replied, "For whom I watched with such fierce care in the path at the edge of the Water, I waited for you with equal heat at the box of the stamp- driver. But I had no difficulty in asking you who you were waiting for. You were waiting for me." "For whom? For yourself." "For myself? Was I waiting for myself?" I said, "If I was waiting for myself I could hardly wait here watching the path at the edge of the Water. I am here." "Ah yes," said you, "you are absolutely right. You are completely distinguished from the path at the edge of the Water. You are in the road at the road end. What are you doing here?" "This is my last year of medicine; it is a grand job, but I have had it; it is a great job. I have made amaze- ments; some have had the goodness to keep them to themselves, but most of them read the papers. Some have come here to see me; they found the path at the edge of the Water; they read the papers, and I stand here and watch the trail of the water as it winds away from the box of the stamp- driver. If you want to know who is reading the papers I am the man. If you want to know anything I have said or done call your high-life man, as I did, and get it done quick. Give me an opportunity to do something for your benefit or my benefit." "I am here," said you. "Give me an opportunity to do something for your benefit and my own. Give me an opportunity to do something for myself. Give me an opportunity to do something for you. "What is the hurry?" There was a sudden recall of attention to other things. A curious man with wild eyes followed me closely. I got out of the car. I saw him move away and I called after him, "Have you a card or something you can give me, just give me a card. I will exchange it for one that I like better." He had no cards; but having no cards, he had a thin sheet of paper. What did I want with the thin sheet of paper? I wondered. I wanted to write something; but, again, I was interviewing myself. I said, "Write me down on it, pencil or ink or gunpowder." He wrote: "Dear Arthur,—I cannot express my love in words; but my heart is broken. I love you—I love you, and will die ere I cannot love you enough. So long as you stay my love I know I shall not fall. I passed recently his ('52) physical, and am in excellent health. Until you write me on the thin sheet of paper I will believe you are still his friend." To write a thing is not the same as to do it; but to do it when you write it, is the thing itself done. When Taning and I began to write letters one another it was to be presumed that Taning was to do the writing, for we never saw him. So when Taning and I began our letters to one another we perceived it as inverse: I would write him a letter; he would then have to write me back. Well, it became a game of correspondence; and we used every carbon Copy-Idee: mother, wife, sister, dog, cat, friend, beer mug, baseball cap, newspaper, shampoo can, pool- legue, paint can, graduation vest, baseball gloves, signature lipstick, baseball bills, reeds, and sticks. When we grew bored with one of the other people on the list, we would switch to another. I would compose an angry missive to that person, and then Taning and I would engage in a dialogue in which it was represented that Taning was to write the letter and that, in the absence of its writer, the appropriate reply should come from the own dark recesses. (I am not sure whether we displayed some device whereby the messages were signed "Dear X., God Speed!") Once a month we all collected our letters in a big black bind o'er a table. The room that held our letters was packed with automobiles and pipes, all in various states of repair. Each evening Taning collected his letters and compared them with his "issues"; he wrote little autobiographies, ghost reports, and other diverting bits of fiction. At night he rocked and rummaged for the appropriate magazine in which to store his letters. At times he passed our room looking for them, as if searching for a pack of cards. His taste in poetry was morbid; once he recited a written sestet that very well might have been in The New Listening. Once he listened to a reading from a book that had appeared on the New York Times bestseller list. The audience, made up primarily of women, applauded hilariously until Taning's notes became illegible. One day we watched two hungry baboons at a hotel bar converse openly with one another in a pleasant fashion. These two counterweights of the human counterweight have nothing in common save their having been in love once and seeking a second love. They are not interested in becoming lawyers or neurosurgeons, but they are successful at each of these professions. I spent the first two years of my legal career in an office staffed by a youthful female servant. On certain days, when I went in for my first interview, I would notice that she was wearing a hat stenciled with my first judicial season's judicial star. My most recent judicial star was embedded late in 1970. I recall her having a roughly duckled relationship with the office decor. My law clerk now serves in that capacity. I would love to relate my impressions of that long- untilted position. I will refrain from editorializing by naming just one or two negative aspects of the situation. It would take an extended critique to do so. My principal criticism is this: I would like to see more promotion of positions which afford women easier access to the courthouse. Women have much to say on this subject. I have noticed little or no effort on the part of those responsible for job allocation to revisit this problem. Women who pass as men at baccalaureate and graduate school hearings regularly speak before them which might draw some attention to their insights. Women who become law clerks, as subclass attorneys, as investigators, as experts, as thematic advisers, as trial counsel, as expert witnesses receive far less training in the techniques of self-promotion than do men. There is also evidence that women have a harder time getting their names cleared than do men. For these and other reasons, I believe that women who move up the ranks tend to do so by concerted tomography. This I know to be true. <|endoftext|> "Little Hell", by Katharine Asato [Living, Death, Growing Old, Life Choices, Midlife, The Body, The Mind, Time & Brevity, Love, Desire, Activities, Eating & Drinking, Gardening, Jobs & Working, Relationships, Men & Women, Nature, Religion, Christianity, Arts & Sciences, Poetry & Poets, Social Commentaries, Gender & Sexuality, History & Politics, Popular Culture, Race & Ethnicity, War & Conflict] 1. They said it was a beautiful garden. All the weeds were wild and healthy. They said it would take a life-style, several houses, several states, several years of her life, to re-create the scene of that one night. They said it would take a journey deep into the night. They knew this, her parents, close friends, the minister who baptized her, the minister who served her in the South, the minister who cherished her among his family, the usher at the prison where she served her limited sentence, the warden at the prison where she is released, all these people who have known and will know her, over time, as she knows everyone <|endoftext|> And what my longings could achieve by pain! I do not dread such harm; I do not dread That a rougher nurse will pinch me when I cry; And I scorn any longer to be called Sceptic, or dependent upon the skies. Sceptics may wonder at my creed, but not (I trust) their awe will shadow mine own surmise. I know at least that I must feel myself On each new day a happier child than yesterday, And that this pride of ours is no worse than theirs; I know that I have always more to learn, And yet never more to learn; that what is true Sore to learn, soon learns to be accomplished; And I, whose thoughts have stretched their reach to-day Triumphantly, must, with toil, climb to-morrow. Thus I may know what I aspire to know; And why I cannot tell you I may not hope. One bird from out the audience pierced with light Enters softly; she that all this is speaking Looks on me earnestly with earnest eyes. Methinks I heard the voices through the wood Becoming more distinct, like word of word: And, as I looked, I saw my Alice speaking, And one beside her, bending to a note, An infant was slumbering in their midst. And while they sang, the song they seemed to speak Was a wild strain of their own had grown To a full-voiced utterance; it might be A happy amatory strain; it might be A hapless wedding-sang fragment: it might be A joyous tale of some well-loved elf That lost his life on a night of rain When all alone walking to his tenting. Or it might be a curse upon noble lords, And nobles' children after him. It might be a curse or a song Of some great misfortune, telleth one The house is forsaken, one doth live Beside him, his soul on ice is set, And it may be (for who shall say ?) It may be, God only knows. But while they sang, methought that their feet Passed by one shared wall of garden That bound the lawn Into an architrave of fences; And, between them, I saw my Lady's garden wall Beyond, and a raised way, where strayed the deer, And, on one side, a gate Of massy iron shut with wire, And on the other Stood long a hedge of fragrant flowers. I have a dream to-night Of a rich lady's garden Wherein about play Many knights and squires The noble lord whose house it is Hath left to like aversion, And who, there sitting, Seekes tidings of her daughter Whom he must hearform, Pursues the object of his search Till closed the garden gates To him, and with the utmost speed Regain his lady's sight, OrElse lures, and loses a goodly fee. And here is one that will not be spent, Nor cast away his sport, But doth alone sing lyre And hath nought else to do, And when a naked youth he sits An up-bent bow he carries, An arrows curious-built And looketh steadfast on it, Until at last his shaft Bolts through the solid oak, And he shoots through and through, So sweet is the passage Of a bare arrow through the air. Well I wote, these bow-strung archers Of archer-kind are few, For all the goodly people That wander about the earth, That seek strange sports and strange, Dwell in walls, within doors and windows, In windows and in gates; They seek strange sports and strange. And surely in the thicket Fast by the bough and arbor One that keeps good watch is hiding, Or he is asleep, And well he knows 'twere better Sitting under the trees By his tall shield than here Under the wretched roof Of a poor country-house. And surely it is day-fall And the rays of the sun Upon the down, the dew, the flower, On the brown stalk of the maize; And the catkins are falling From the cactus and the cnee, From the orange and the grape, From the prickly pear and tare, And from the coral-grade tree White as snow in the sun; And the pear leaf strews the floor With its silver pennons; And within the dewy roses Are little beasts of purple dye From the same bush with the mango-fruit Are the leaves and the stems Of a strange martial tree, And when it sends forth arms of flame To assail the sun-born foes, Then is it mad or divine That it is Nepenthes' Dawn That here doth sit and play, Luring with fragrant jewelled rods All the air with her silvery threads, And the mind of the lad With her silver arrows sweet To guard the lightnings of the steel That is she mightiest now. And this tree she never will fell, Or cast its branches far, Or go near the light of the sun, Or go in the sight of the moon: For she believes her plant Is but a plant of smoke, And 'tis but her fancy that she sees The fruit that she thirsts for With such passion burning To touch it, pluck it, drink it And get all needed increase For her down-going in. And therefore she must seem As it were a spook-tree, By herself unknown and pale, Which any one that stood near Should be suddenly terrified, And half afraid of the thing, And half afraid that he too Should seize and drag her away With hunger-quenched whimpering. And many travellers have framed Fabricated tales of it; And many of her own stupid tribe Have also the marvel feigned, So that from far has it been hunted, And set in many a tale of mystery Of evil prowess and dreary hunt, The yarn of the Grosse Insect. There are birds that only will sail In a strangeward direction, Or swim upward in a curve, But never will fly straight upward, Or even wheel in a regular circle. They all lie endwise, or under, Or even end-endwise in an arc. The little City-Bell is heard At night, at midnight or morning, When the moon is up or overcast. The City-Terson sounds at reset When the city-glows are dark. The lonely Sky-Meeter sounds When the stars are shining or down. The Wind-Bell is heard at springtime, When the golden-rod is sprouting. The Wind-Meeter sounds at wakening, When the first leaves are stirred. The Hum-Bell is heard at harvest, When the insect-crowds are quiet. The Horned-Terson is heard at danger, When the woods are empty or full. The Horned-Meeter sounds at climax, When the vastness of the report fills The whole air, as though three cities Had then begun to creep, Or four or five had fallen. The Loud-Bell is heard at birth, When the little child is born. And the Dreadful-Terson is heard When the lightning-storm is born. The Dreadful-Meeter sounds at harvest, When the corn is white and ripe; The Axe-Meeter sounds at fleshing, When the first two leaves are sprung; And the Bell-Meeter sounds at breaking Of the strong hempen rope, Or some great noble's coming When his halls are full of troops, And the whole fast-chested world Is at his bidding drunk. But the City-Terson is heard Whenever there's a shouting Of the people, or a beating Of the city-screens, or a smashing Of large portraits, or a billowing Of large banners, or a gallop Of coaches and steeds and arming Of troops on parade, or a rush Of masses, or a great uproar Of prayers, or an organ playing, Or a strange strange rustic interlude. The City-Bell, the Bell-Meeter, And the Sky-Meeter are all in rallying, And the entire Sky-World intercommuning, And all the people collectively Shouting, raving, triumphant, surveying. And loud, shrill, threatening, answering clearly, The new-comers are borne over, faring On lantern-maples, with the diminishing Of the lights in the west; and to-morrow The old town will again be vastly Redesigned, and the people sweeping With big windbillows toward the glimmering Democracy of the sun. Somewhere, surely in the Oriental isles A feminine old tower Has a winding staircase Out of its rockiness, Where is shriven and oaken-wood laid bare <|endoftext|> Then raised Their dreadful swords with which Bristled the purple plumes of our Lord and his saints, And struck at me, Peter, and made wide my gape And gaping throat, And of my temples broad stroke for stroke Stabbed the casque and my strong hands and my hands' might; Against my blows, unmoved, the cup and the crown Flashed fire and fumed up, and my locks stood wide and silver-shadowed. In the flood Of blood and fury, while my limbs all lost their freshness, those Thy servants, whom Thou dost give Importune, all the ugly gang with strong right arms Unheeded stood and gazed. So to the high hill's side Where Peter stood with back turned, behold, he turned back His dolorous gaze, And I too could recognise that victorious look, When blood and victory hold o'er all the world begin. Then turning to my Lord, he spake: "Lift up Thy gaze and note His front; when at His feet One beholds a world wrung as by sickness, weep First for the sinned-against, the erring, sickly Outcast, the distempered. Since the world's beginning The upright have suffered most and least; the pure At mouth of sin have climbed up to Heaven's roof, And sinless maidens left for greater maidens, Save that they mount no further. So man's wish Is choice-mortal; of his choice the tempter. For craving to be chosen, he rouses the fear of loss And lest thou fall, quickens the desire to be most after him who is least." Thus we who on the Straight and reach the Happy First District, of life's lot choose the worst, Since from the onely Beautiful and Kind the other take their name. For the wise work for happy form and safe through pain, And woe to that man or woman who takes the cheating Side. Now came I to the city full of merchants; Merchants high in wealth and rank; and round The rich town, by the shining ways and by the wall, Imprisoned I stood and saw the poor and naked, The sick, the disconsolate, and sick-hearted, And envied their joy and their inmost thoughts. Then did a swaying tree come to my feet, And to the side it swung, and bending low, And holding high my gaze, I saw before A youthful maiden seated; round her struck Light from the sun, and sweet from the sun Awakened was the languor and the glow Of her holy features as the blessed image blazed Upon my face and in my eyes. Then was I no longer mine own, nor him I envied, nor the world's hope, nor death's terror; but a sign From Heaven that the Eternal order of things Had waned and faded from the face of things, And man's heart reft him of his best hope. I would have cast me into the depths of hell Into the belly of the struggling spawn That whelmed and burrowed its spawnly way Tow'rds the mouth of hell. But on a day My Master sent me out unto the world, And said unto me, "Take well thy seller's word, And go thy way; for all the neighbours know That soon as ever, word of mine, thou com'st Into this land of England, thou shalt be Wael on and dealt with justly. And if thy heart be clean, and knowest thy heart Is safe, and knowest thy life is safe, Then take the seller's word to go. And if Thou fear that any wrong thy brethren's children May do thee, lest they fill thy seat with thine And turn against thee and harm thee sorely, The King's Manoeuvre let thy thoughts to learn. But think in thy heart, dear, that in this world, Whether here or there, thy brothers's children Have no rather a money, love, and a breath; So shalt thou go." "Woe to the man Who helps but now my brother's children," Quoth I. "Why? for this man's good word would stand the test Of coming years and double-tried." The master smith anrewed me, "So shall it be," he said. Now had I wherewithal to seek and hearken, And I went forth the gates of London. And as I went with open mouth and eager look Unto the merchants, massy rich, I heard a poor man's tale of woe. "O brother mine, I cannot work! my son is set on marryin' Now, an' wants the sellin' of our fathers' shops An' they will not sell. An' we shall die out we know not how, for my wife Would not lave her head nae mair, nae mair, Ere th' blood's about her. An' I have no son, my brother, to sell my shop An' buy my wife. O brother mine, Marry an' marry!" An' tears were in his eyes when he ceased; An' I was struck with woe and pity. I passed on, with many a silent thought How poor this poor man's want were, I passed Unto a temple; I could see there A woman ministerin' in a platter To a corpse that lay in a low lurch That kept a-tiptoe o'er the door That gave on the grave. "Help me, Brother," the poor man cried, "To sell our dead," he said. "It shall be done," I said. "Nae hurry, Brother," said he. He rose in the hole of the night, 'Neath the low roof he made his bed, And when the first stars of the morn Had wakened his sleepy head, He crept to the door, and peeped again, An' he shied in his fingers At the sill. "It shall be done, Brother," said he; "Our dead shall sell, For aye we bury them, an' make Our poor death glad, If we sell them before 'tis dyed In the blood-red tide." "Nae mair," I said; He heard me well; He gave a jerk o' the head That shook the bed; He climbed into the platter's passin' length, An' shivered in blood. The sister-in-law she heard him groan, She thorped him an' spierin' An' she cluckin' her rattle, An' she hummin' her pie, An' a soughin' came from the grave, That drewwed upon the door An' hooted at her lover's bride, When she cocked her head at 'im. The rich men in the town They laughed at him when they met him; For he was poor, An' dressed in a dirty grey, That had seen some weather. It was but a poor necromancer With a poor dead name, But some did fancy that he could do A better than the best; And once or twice he made the King A present of a silver goblet That cost him two bob or more. Our sister, Eliza, she married Jim Taylor, A greedy ambitious man, a son of Arranwood; So when she died at last of lightning, Jim went to the Ferry, He jumped in a boat and jumped out again, That is all he could do, A jolly old trooper of the Grenadier Guards That went to Syria on a research mission, Inspecting the books in the Testament Library, Also noting down all the notable sayings; Also observing the markings on skeletons, The dates when corks burst and there was none to stop them, Also the bizarre quotation of Mrs. Arden, Also the adventures of those that ride a duck, Also the proper way to unbraid a widow's curly white hair, Also the cures for insomnia, the causes for thunder and lightning, Also a note on Hamlet, A passage from the Talmud, Jim commented on that, Also on Lincoln's speeches, That too was quoted, Also the war in Spain, And then there was Bonaparte, Another source of humorous genealogy, Also a remark on Byron's funeral, Also Albert Einstein, Also the meaning of a certain line in Keats's "Lines Old Time is a tale for kids," As William Kristol once said. But for those who love history There is much to learn from old Shakespeare, Also from James Clerk Maxwell and Rutherford And from Einstein who said: "In a world of smooth talking clerics Children should go to college to be made straight, And not be dumb as dinosaurs." As for Abraham Lincoln There is much to love about him, Also his extraordinary mustache, <|endoftext|> So many,--so many, and now by living eyes Seen out of Tartarus, seeing, I confess, And owning that I am he who wrote of yore, A child of Darkness and Death, new raised to birth! Where have I gone then?--Where am I going now? To what dark land am I hastening on, and how Am I to shun the fatal Rocks and waves? Or shun them,--by the sweet Serenity of God? I have gone weeping, doubting, and sinning, There where the worm hath its twelve crops of grief Scarce heard of heaven. No purpose, no desire, No counsel of good, no love is mine, Only an element in harrows, and then A hateful hunger with a fierce desire For the black food that is never won too fast. Ah, God! the wet sands, the vile vineyards, The little proud town, and the dim lake shore, The low wide fields, the strong war-ship's mooring, The waiting weed, the unlamented sparrow, The cries of the poor, the weary, weary birds, The ugly cities and their impotent cries,-- I say, I say,--that I am going back again! Back! as the wave is the wave until it turneth, As the wind is the wind, and Night is the Night until it darketh, From the dim half-light of the valley, from the stars unseen of men, From joy, from pain, from sleep and death, from limitless mist of flowers And starry mists of many sorrows, from all things changed and gone, From earth itself, from Heaven, I turn me back to the beginning. MORAL (without the shadow of a reason). Time was the East-wind Whistled in the farm-house window, And the day was one of happy days. We bare our souls to the merciless night, And received not consolation or part Of the all-absorbing sorrow. Sometime the West-wind Came from the far-off station, And the day was one of angry days. We bare our souls to the merciless night, And received not consolation or part Of the all-absorbing sorrow. Sometime the East-wind Whistled in the prison-grid, And the day was one of silent days. We bare our souls to the merciless night, And received not consolation or part Of the all-absorbing sorrow. Time was the East-wind Whistled in the farm-house window, And the day was one of happy days. We lived in loveliness and sorrow Together, and laughed together. Sometime the West-wind Came from the far-off station, And the day was one of angry days. We lived in anger and sorrow Together, and laughed together. SHE stands like One in State, Who doth Him model, both in face And in the conventions of the game; Or like Two accustom'd hands, That do His function equally; Or like two minds that do His mind model, And think and say His mind as they. Within His fair large eyes All human imaginings sort, As if we did those eyes direct To a goal beyond the genial frame: An earnest face, Fit for the inspiring conception Of God to the evolving soul. That was the learning she prized, The power to hold the various light That danced within life's various spheres, A purified light, a clear light, A flame that naught should dwarf or defer, A fire that naught should mar. A fire that neither hungers yet, Nor requests, nor knows nor seeks, Blessing thrones it should be powerless to win, A nameless light, a sun not found By all, yet knowing all. It did not view, as other eyes do, The parcels of the bounty pay, But cast its view beyond the skies, That far away were being made And to the spheres of life remote Each earthly Bounty gave its hold. Each earthly Bounty knew its place, But placed it not beyond the reach Of the devoted young heart's love, On which its influence poured its store Of living light, of living offspright. So for a while, she wonder-crown'd, All unsought, the glad King sat; Then rose the children's leader, Their born ruler, their King's mate, And when He needed them most Were they, with One in dread accord, Their one advocate. What wonder if within her (If she had none) the divinely Gifted lone eagle sat While yet upon Calvary She looked the way of all? WHEN, high above the sea In airy altitudes of glory Her wings unfurl'd, her pinions reveal'd, To that soft star, in distance nigh By love and angel eyes above The home of loving one she sanctified, Fair mystery of earth's bright bow'rs How call'd you to my mind's eye? As when Apollo all a-gleam From his third vault, serene, Some nymph's fairer than the dawn, In her whose form he knew Lifting his homeward wing, he flies To the fifth of morning light. To the dove-like shape a note of sadness Took quite the hue of rapture, And might have dropp'd the careless lark With three of driest partridge-neck, To hear that strain of happiness. The clasping blossoms, musky o'er him, Sorewiven in his eyne; With sunny wings for facilitation He felt the spring have come. And not the less that summer ev'ning When home from Corinth we motley spent, And though but few, we were rous'd to laughter By a perroquet that sprang exultant From lips we should have known were too poor Towards our wishes to approve, Had we keep'd it to our self. From that dissolving meeting, in my mind More dim and awful re-births are seen, Some take the likeness of like offence Deliberate to inflame again Some forgotten heart, as thou who dost Still fret that brother of thy love. "Oh! could I drown myself in tears! Or hug my wound and recoil from all Because a brother wrong'd me once. Why should I more the familyette Than these immortal lights divine? My wound can yet consume me. My cheek ne'er shall flush red with shame To think I was so vain." ARE blind her eyes, though she had seen The mists on her sweet Philomel Sweeping o'er the ebbing cauldron Of Ocean, while her surf sang "Hallo" In tones where harmony and wonder Ne'er could with music mingle be; Oh! had she been our dearest friend, Our Venus or our Cupid, Oh! had she dress'd her mind to me, Our eyes had never seen! Her lips were hers, and that alone Which love hath power to bespeak In woman; all the rest were mine, Her choice her own; yet had she said What all thyself could never guess. If she had been an angel fair, In long, red, angel-lilies white, A nymph of lakes or pearly brooks, E'en then had she beheld And twined her arms around me. But, as plain as writing's pen can mark, Or charm requires, what she was Was all invisible to me. If then I must confess what tongue Could never speak, my wounded heart Had turn'd itself into pine-trees close, From whence a mighty torrent, see! Sucks every naked bud and flower And softly giggling wets its wave. Or else the rainbow's tints alone Could show me where she loved me In that only way that's true, The only true in love is sure. And so the gentle rain of tears It self had taken from my eyes Gave it for all I needed do To make my woes more faint and light. So in the night her griefs came rain or shine, And in the day she soothed and smiled and loved, In every weather, like a saint serene. While the great sea of silence in her ear Breathed of a joy that was more than human; And where she turned her conscious face, she saw His face when she was nigh to love him quite; But low below the rain of griefs had roll'd And glided into the silver sea. Oh, she was lovely as a frightful star That lights and darkens night for ever. Her skin was moonlight or the violet, The lightest were but as flashes now, And her rich eyes were calm and deep; Or the grand old pine-tree, shivering there, The winter tempest may move or not-- But it trembled with the pain of her, And shook its wild green mansions all. <|endoftext|> Where the winter and summer ever-voicing Scarborough Ascola and Santa Anastasia: Blue meridell and loamy mosses wet with tears, White snow, blue ice, sparkling fountains cold, Gloomy castle pillars that are mumbling Their own funeral dirges above their locked keep, And with sound of hammer and chisel fastened Unto the crumbling stone;--'tis no wonder That I'm shaken by the solemn, mournful mood That wanders about the darkened town. We don't know whither our lives have wandered, But some of us must have died for a time: And you that are weeping know why I am sad, You are weeping for a father or a brother, Or a friend that is long not near again. Why don't you cry for your own bitter loss? We've made our lives one unreal, vivid dream: But behind our dream you'll hardly see our groaning And your tears will help me not in my woe. I've always fancied you turned to me When I was seeking for the town's gate, And none ever noticed that you vanished While I trudged along beside you trudge. The night is dim and it is growing late: I shall see you not in the still-awake dark, But still I dream and I dream and I go on, Knowing that my heart--I know not how I know it-- Is a chamber where a ghost doth reave. Mother, when I used to come round your door And knock, the first sound that greeted me Was that of a mocking owl from yon thicket: So near he sat that I could bloom his throat, Then sky and fields and river-bars he told. He praised my wit then, and how I repaid it: How each new poem I wrote gave fruition To everything he said or did or might do. My four- and six-and nine-month cents he quoted, How I became "so dear to clients," And soon "all business was mine to keep." Then came moonlight and dawn with their own theme: He praised the robes of such kings as you had worn, And gentle ladies' clothes, and read aloud The letters they had written you, and laughed sore. And so it went through all the notes and quotations, Until at last (over the flying spray) There came a change. My owl, he said, no longer echoed His comments on court and cathedral wall. Now he criticized the world, the world I haunt. He hated "yarnys of babyhood" and "hoity-toity." He sighed: "Some things are best left alone!" Mother, you know that my father died, And that my mother goes to her grave in debt. At night I see the wan and ghastly light Of their pitchforks and torches white as snow. They have torched the little church and garden. I sit in the bare centre of my door And shudder as their gleaming arms pass And hurry on to burn the little town. It was a danger to Val-court, I know. But I dare not stay in that close-clipped green And watch the hideous torches at bay: I know that the town, too, must fall. The great lamps are blazing down the street And yellow flames are bursting out of every window, But my gaze is turned where burns my brain: 'Tis the same white road I used to ride upon When all my soul was gay and free Like a bright scythe in the field of a noble lord And there was music in the air And Spring was the cruellest justiciary. The world is strange and new to me But the House of H.... it is not strange And I am back in the old familiar room, And the old wit salivates in my throat. And you that are weeping are not mothers: There is something you have lost, and not their sons. And what you have lost you can never find again. I could walk for a thousand years and never find it. No, I have become a strange and primitive image Of what man was born to expect and find: The poor plaything of chance and circumstance Whose daily life is a succession of trivial moves And whose abiding star is the various jests and dodges He throws up in order to tell which hand is strongest. The wonder is that I am what I am: A narrow pedlar of obscure satisfying things. Yet at the counter of the shop I am filled with the hope that one merciful night He will give me my final bugbear: And in his bag he will see Eternal gratefulness And light the lights In my poor room <|endoftext|> The busy beaver jumps and murmurs "O, I have a sheet of skin That you may walk on, I see you pass, To bed I will bring you something to eat, And warm and good will be my gladly Till you return, to thine!" The sheet he folds, the beaver steers, And with a winding course betakes him To his bed of twigs; He dreams that beneath him wander, Uninvited, bright spirits, gay and loth To make his place their dwelling. While Night, exalted, winding down, Dislimns the world with purple sheen, The happy beaver glad to sleep Makes merry with a certain dream, Drawn by his penmanship. Dugup clear and large, the stream they see, And through the rushes they can hear The sound that rustles in the reeds. The bright ones laugh, "Our new-found way From such a source shall save us lot! We go, and leave the path to you!" The beavers, greatly pleased, obey, And fling their hat and coats away, And ready then embark for the new sea. As light as birds, upon their way They gain the secret shore. They thrust the bugger from his hidden nook, And filled their huts with ducks and geese; Then spread their homes upon the surging tide, Till, with the night come early, they Come up with early allies. The beavers of green mossy rills Their walls and dams see no more; The Ducks and Guano together Creep where the beavers were before; The light-water is deposited Where dams and walls had been. Dams are broken, water drained, The beavers build, and bring to birth A fashion of masonry, A city bound with mole-walls, With galleries and racial tinsels Where earth and wood may mingle. Walled and dowered with trees, and growing Grown with spite of frost and rain, Full many a quaint adornment The traffic in stone delights; And tourists delight to view The funny striped gconsio, The dark-eyed rosebud, and the trumpet-vine. An inky sumptery thick and steaming Frequents the valley far and wide; Gleaming with all ablaze of duvet-light New buds before the morning-star Snug hid in hollows, till the shrewd sun Blushes with anger at the day. The weary sun-burned wanderer sighs, Glows on with tanned and contemplative Encounters with the skies to be; The weary sun-burned wanderer sighs, In the piping hoofs of passing hoofs, The prying eye of curious hunters Glances where the boughs do overlap. With brows against the hollows drying, Where briar or thistle doth twine, The sombre pall encases each column, Crowned with white bloom the Friar-snows Rise up to meet the gentle wind; The Sabbath breezes meet them flocking, The pious birds flit o'er the placid earth. I might not tell thee how the spring brings First sniff and beat of young lilies' wings, And teeming freshness, spicy and sweet; And my disheartened heart grows glad And bids every wildering feeling flee; So, bear me to my romantic grottoes, Where, coiled up, safe, I sigh and look Into green, dark spaces of the West! Deep down a dark and silent vale Clings gathered mimosa's plumes And bloom and hush and white as snow; I will follow soon the mellow trail, Forbella smoothing her pale robe, And let the sunset's red and gold be My example, tell me not I stray In barren wilderness alone. When, springing o'er a mossy bed, The early oaks, in greenest green, Upped from their calm repose Send forth their conflict of leaves and sprays And, forming a sweet infernal gloom, Soft-branching from the stem to touch The waters that, hidden under, With reedy echo cry around. My soul will hear the circling sweep <|endoftext|> Before the Divine of the ancient times Its coming had never been foretold Nor its institution secretly debated By its scholars, even by its prophets. The nearer the spectacle came Of that world-embracing man, The more it lost all claim To be a prediction; For we have seen the Roman Pontiff of Christ, With all the cunning arts By which he sought to exclude or compel Religious freedom of thought and faith, Seeking the friendship of the Pagans. When he found he could not gain Indulgence of sacrifice For his Church's errors, artful or oral, He, on his journey thither, As if to purge himself of the sins of Hindooism (For which the Christians had left untried His holiest religious shrines and altars, And what the Rajah of Rummy believed in), In his travels through the land, Discovered, to his sorrow, That Mahomet, the Wizard, before whom none came With honest mind and pure, Had built up there afar, without one footfall of prayer A conflagration in the valley of the King of Ylem, His idol-temple Which the common-wealth, More pagan than a common-prayer, Forbidding- By statute the worshipping Of the God of the sun Before these buildings of gloom; A conflagration by no stroke of a mason's axe wrought In ages which had blazed and red Long centuries before Among the ruins and the drift-wood of abandoned cities; But a church, more enormous than the fane To which it puts men's dreams, More awful than a life of impotence Built o'er the ruins of the open society. The building itself Thrills not the sense of a soul; There the chief priests on assembly-days Go with their beads and their beads again, And their Pope the city's idol-apparition, With his mandate, "Modest Men, Unburdened Beings, Come and be fitly merciful To your children and your brethren." Thereon they sit, each in his allotted place, Making their glad little prayer, Seeing their Bishop without a beard Vouchsafing them absolution for past sin. The others stand around With level hearts, not stirring from their places; Bending their heads in silent adoration While the Rev. Canon Jeroboam, Is lifted toward the white-robed Candlestick And the service goes on as if they had all been there. 'Tis his great ministry (And no great minister at that) Is the secret of its good effects; Because to him alone it really seems Whatever comes to pass, There in white garments going and coming, Suffering and conquering, goes to the vespers. That is what is meant when the Servant of God, Before that multitude, With outstretched arms with outstretched eyes, Praises the gods, Is not by his own power but by the gods.' The Jewel, gazing as to say 'How can all this be? I see No smoke-wreathed temple, and no bell Doth toll the hour.' It is the infinite soul of the thing, An immeasurable force of the god, That dares be good Wherever that creature may come. God's plan is impossible Till the First Cause be read In the Me therefore God cannot be blameless, But takes upon him to be blameless. 'You seem to say,' She answered me in my weariness, 'That to a man's power nothing can be blameless. But, dear, I know a house that's so To which the serpent man has crept And in whose heart he hides his shameless head. Not there alone, dear, but in many lands The lion with the lashes is not lashed, Nor lies the wolf in peace: So in this shrine of him who is the King Your minister you will not find.' I must go where fair Queen Ariadne goes And draw white roses, cattleyred, One for each sweetheart that I love and know. What, if they fade ere they be ripe? Two for them that are dead and two for them That are yet unborn. But these white roses be not pale: To Ariadne's eyes they will be bright, In those same roses her face will be As white as snow. The crown that white brow of hers shall bear When all these roses go to weave The jewel of her brow. Let sweet Ariadne sit all Sunday mirth In the temple, whence, come worship her, If white suns need rain or white skies doubt, Come worship, come worship, come worship her. The Lord will have us, since there's none else, This worship, come worship Him. Let white sails whelm all that dwell below The wakened eyes of yellow-arms. White-armed Youth should be the watchmen now, And when the dead roses of our love Shall blow, we may go down to the shore And take them off for your white hair. For, when we pray, sweet God of our souls, Grace to us and keep us, we shall know And have pardon of you. And when dead flowers are for a nail, And love is for a nail, We shall touch you with both feet. With the pale moonlight on our faces We will kneel and will confess The hope in love that never dies Nor the fault in love that cannot mend. Pity us, sweet God, for your sake, We that have love in love no more. The stars all night were looking toward you, And the foam all night was not calm, The wind all night was not still, And the earth all night long Knew neither rest nor peace. The woods were wailing over the battle -- Yes, the whole wide world knew what was passing, What lies at the end of the fight, The trees were whispering: 'Victory!' And the walls were trembling too. But ah! the stars were smiling toward you, And the seas were rainbow-coloured, And the sky was not to blame -- Why, even angels wondered 'Weren't Anyvear but you?' Only, where the deep green sea was silent One voice said: 'There's only one 1 0/4 'Attendance At Heaven -- 't were better hence to go. God cares for only them that enter Heaven.' Only, look where the red-gold sun Bathes all the world from end to end With warm light, one voice murmured: 'God Knows how many scars you've got.' And still the world of Life was saying: 'Only He cares for only them That when He chooses will certainly pass Through the burning door.' Only, I've come to my heaven, Too happy and contented to cry, Though the world seems without bliss, too. You can't find my heaven by your round Of miserable cares and fears, By worrying, weeping, praying much, By fearing, loving little, Though sometimes our love may seem Half our life and half solemn fancy. One little minute may pass In our heaven by grace of God. God does not need your prayers nor tears, He cares for living and dead. He cares for you and me and all That wander through His fire-belching years. Lord, have a great care for us, And we will bless when we may. Only look where our love goes, Over all loves, over all loved. Look where our gaze alone Has passed through fires to flame, Lavishly, blindly, joyously, To love's own image there. One place is only home -- The nothing of a neither nor Which we long for, blind, and pray. We may not ask to look on it, But our eyes that look can tell. And it is where our arms have set, Above all untraveled stars, Whose light is like a loving touch Upon the face of home. Only look! Our home! Only look! We never can travel far Without returning again With half our life's beauty dull. We never can travel very far, We almost feel that we can never go. We never understand why This thing should be. But the light Takes us again and again To where it goes and comes, Making us see how strange and sad It is, and seem to know That we have only begun To search and find the meaning of life. The light shines constantly. We see That darkness everywhere was night, And that the purpose of our life Is but to look toward its close, The ebb, the most distant day. And yet we never can travel far, We almost feel that we can never go. This fire burns brightly everywhere, We see it mysteriously there Before our very eyes. We cannot look upon it But we see what it can do, Of sun and star and fire and cloud, <|endoftext|> Dogs squeal, and they make Sound as of leaping hollow Bark of the full-grown white Bear. At the evening meal the Bear came to the feast with his pack, Not silent, but making sound. They made sound as of wolves howling in the forest, Or of prowling wolves in the wilderness. "Where are you going with that heavy pack," said the Kiowas. "We are going to a hunt," said the Pekin; "we are pack'd for sport. Hunters are men too, are we not? We wish to feel the chase. You hunters must be men also. Let us begin. If we lose our way, we will soon regain it. You carry This red deer by your side. See that he does not wander." When they had dispersed, the red deer began to growl and bark, And the beasts of the forest replied. They hunt'd far to the north, they hunt'd to the sea, They hunt'd east and west, they hunt'd both south and north, Till the earth was black with their claws. At the hunt they drank wine, And apiece filled. Hiawatha, Lower Nokomis Son of Anchandise, BIG TIME, , brought news of victory to Hiawatha; He taught him to handle the gun, And when he aimed, he powerfully pulled the trigger. He shot at the Demon, Chimé, Demon of Fear, who lived in the swamp deep beneath the miry valley. He struck him on the head, and he fell dead; And the fools rejoiced o'er Hiawatha. Then they took Hiawatha's form And replaced him in the palm tree's shade. But Atem, the gentler one, As he called the leaders of the ambush, In accents gentle, commanding, To their hidden ambush came each one. Like a squirrel they crept out, In their beauty and swiftness, Nimble as deer, and dark as fox, And with marks of terror on their faces. Their bows were ready, and they held Six very busy rifles, Each without delay they fired, Firing at point-blank range. But the brave Hiawatha Held his own without a quarrel, He was unarmed, and held himself Zoosogņa, the medical Master of the fight. Many of the warriors ran away From the vigorous assault of the red men. In his wigwam, strange and lesser, As of a squirrel they hid Hiawatha. In all his life he had never seen such defense; In his ears the cheers of his people ran loud and constant; And he guessed surely that the foe had won the day. He stood among the dead men and said crying, "I thank thee, Owlet, chief of warriors, For this great service which thou hast now done me. I should not hold my tongue, if I were I man, Though the king of the Red Men had come to invade me, And the enemies were so loud in proclaiming it. But for thee, oh Owlet, chief of warriors, I could have stood long years in that cruel land, Crying for vengeance, and said my language; But now I shall fly swift and free To the land of the Hereafter, Where I know another voice will sounded be, And I may hear my children crying for me." He led the way eager-hearted, And they followed fast with sorrowful hearts, And they covered the road very quickly, Seeing the dead among the living, Sad refugees on the face of the open prairie. On the surface of the little island Southward of there appeared to them a pyramid Of the dead people lying on and on, And beneath this pyramid were gardens And haymaking areas, And behind these were groves of asphodel, And in the angles of these were forest Engrossing and darkly glorious. Then said Atem, the gentlest of all heroes, To the ghostly poet of the island, Speaking like a lover and moving like a poet: "I behold in the shades of the asphodel, And the redwood tree-tops around us. Must these be they? Why do we rush to them? Look below us! look beneath us! There are only the dead upon the sod, Gazing in silence and despair, Like men who gone into the land of Gosho Have gone into the watery world of Kubu-Kubu. The panther of the mountains is not more terrible In beauty or strength than they, the dead survivors. These shall lead us to safety, the weary and wounded, The ghosts of the heroes and the wise men whom heaven destroyed. In the land of the Hereafter will we find them, These all turned into invisible ether, Gazing at our footprints in the dust, At our bodies that have changed to grass and leaves." Thus passed Atem and his companions, And they saw the ghosts of the men who died In the land of the Hereafter, Turning the earth beneath them into grass and leaves, Into a beautiful color, Into golden that shone in the sunlight. And the poets of the island sang them, Sang the song of Atem, the gentlest of all heroes, Thus the story of Wainamoinen, Sweet and faithfully presented, Poured out its treasure of sentiment, Poured out the sweetness of his heart, On the tabernacle of Sungod, On the cross weaked of magic, In the homes of her people. Nevermore appeared the legendary hero, Never again went Wainamoinen, On the great celestial highways, On the long dark highways, Sailing in sleigh decorated with silver, Circling in sledge drawn magic, To the beds of the dead. Long he wandered in the badlands, Looked upon the paths of the sacrifice, Spake these words to his people: "The day comes for my departure, Even now comes to my journey, Tomorrow I must depart for life-existence, To the home of great Ahti-ancestral, Never again must I depart from Ahti, In the home of happy Ahti-dear! There may well exist evil-doers, And the hapless-spirits may suffer harm-bearing, Not in kind, but in mind-consuming, In a thought-like agony." Still he wandered in the badlands, Looked upon the paths of the sacrifice, Spake these words to his people: "The day comes for my departure, Even now comes to my journey, Tomorrow I must depart for life-existence, To the home of great Ahti-ancestral, Naught can I accomplish in life-existence, Nothing whatever can I gain for singing, If I leave good Ahti-dear for Olafsen; Good Ahti-dear, the best of all heroes, Of the race of Ahtinelu. Ahti-dear, in whose bower is resting, On whose outstretched kalis rest gold, You must guide me on my life-existence, To the home of sweetest Olafsen." Thus he wandered in the spaces, Thus he sighed in the meadows and marshes, These the words he uttered numberless: "Ahti-dear, my life-singer, Thine I give for ever to singness, To the paths of the sacrifice, Thy blessing for me for ever, Thine I give for ever, Ahti-dear!" Louhi, hostess of Pohyola, Against the early golden suns, When the days are long and the nights are long, Sits alone in maidenable beauty, Throned upon her seat of pride, Far above the ears of day-reapers, Far below the hoofed coursers. Always at this early golden time Appears the song of Louhi's cowshed, Cowshed of sharpened horns, by never-enchanted waters, As in letters I type the great tales of ancient legends, All the wild tribes to Northland drawn, As in letters I type the words of ancient wisdom, All of kindred lore together. Always at this early golden time Appears the hill of Louhi's flowers, Glittering in colors wreathed and fringe'd with blossoms, As in letters I type the lore of legendary Americans, All the tales of ancient heroes and heroes' children, All the wonders of the wood and water, Magic springs and hot smokes of suns which never glow, As in letters I type the words of magician-wisdom, All of magic France, as in letters I type the wizard Ishmael, All the wonders of this wondrous book of magic, All of wondrous Udijuor, king of dreams, As in letters I type the words of legendary Legendarium, All of magic London, as in letters I type the wizard Ishmael, <|endoftext|> Most superbly caused the hearts of mortals to move and their eyes to roll, and, shaking himself, to yawn and brim as with wine. Come ye to the banquet of Orphalese And sit on downy cushions richly spread, Where Nemus' waters slowly purling Around a flagon of champagne shall float And Florian be thy dancing-master. In a hole of the cliff there is a door Beneath whose scam rooftop I have built A bower of ivy for your lover. Bright with love's golden light And gladsome to love I'll to my lover recline And he shall be my mind's eye-opening portal. When the Moon's shadow glimmers on the sea And the wind is blowing a tune it seems I hear The dashing of a tear from Florian's chalice And as I laugh aloud his thirst is slaking. Far out in the bosom of the deep My lover and I our bower will build. What pleasant times shall drift to us there, What sorrow shall chill not, as we sit there Browsing the guide that mortal seamen gave, Sweet with the lore of ancient wisdom! How shall we bathe in the rim of the world But in the voice of the wondrous deep? How but by the trembling of a dear and rosy hand? When Florian's hand Falls trembling to mine, I feel the sea Come up to me, the happy world of lovers, And as I recline, in quivering train Of sweet beseeching words I say Love's lovely philosophy. I said, "Ah, that is the rose That blows into the dew-darkled air, Into the heart of our mystery, And clouds my path with its odor rare: A fly-blown flower upon the wave, Seen by the gulls in their flight across it Or by the distant ship that floats above And reads the word of love with mystery. And this is the curse that falls on me: To die when the last note is over And leave the last bloom of my grief unshed, To live with all my thorns, and only With all my thorns shall live or die." As old Euphorbus, weary of the thing he knew, Stretched 'twixt the fields and wreathed with foliage dim For an unknown walk, at break of day, He saw a wildingress, a thing too bright To dwell in, winding down a wooded slope, A thing so slender it was a thing between, Just like the young shoots of a tall-tree fern Plucked by the warm sun and curled to fed In the meadow where the dancing looper, And as it grew it opened the voice of a man, The hoarse red hoarse of a wren singing a blare, A mock quick stamp and hiss from a builder's rake And a walk's soft murmuring of broom limbs, And then a woman's whisper of, For a moment in the starlight dim, Out of the garden of Euphorbus came a guide, As shy and free as new-mown hay, or grass, Making her way to where her master had stood While her wings were puffed and full of glee As every sense was overtaxed to bare Her thirst, not mine, was so. With a welcome faint The warm sweet mouth that had overtaken my ear Led me with her to meet me yet again, As friendly as the dew upon March mist Slips down a chicken's flank, or blossoms blown To meet the fingers of the moon at night Dance in a lover's hair, a little wear On the crescent's fringes, when the nightingale Swoons into her mate's arms and dies. With her was a farmer's lad, at sun-down sinks, A skilful huntsman; and we ran and ran, Not seeing the great bird at all, That wandered all the harbor through Beneath the dusk of a glorified sky, That gave her no tribute of a wing, Nor buffeted her with a troubled breast, But stayed above and let her take her prize Of the quiet gold that glittereth there. So, sometimes, far aloft, and hidden far In the deep violet of noon-day blue, I hear a bird's cool brass above me cry, The voice of her that answered in the sky; And every time she answers, every time I see her, throned in the middle sky Between the planets and the morning star, So be kind, thou, to my wandering heart, That lingereth no more on land or sea, But rather art athirst to flee away And seek the wide, green, unpeopled ocean deep; And in the stillness of the moonrise I will say, Since even my love is kind, why stayest thou To vex me with thy troubles? Behold, I crave To depart with all my care and all my toil From thy sad shores, and seek some haven unknown Far from thy mansions, thou wast never heretofore. With love that crept into my life at six Away from war-towns, and a heart that felt That love might come ere long, when fighting ceased And hungering men had died, or dying grown Recalled the bonny lass with eyes of blue, And that her hair was wound with brown like these, And that her mouth and eyes were mine alone; And many a hopeless love-tale writ On my unlovely face, and bitter dolorous That stung my soul at heart, and sighs and piteous That filled the dark and chilled my fevered blood; And oftener far, and nearer heaven and sea I dreamed, and prayed to be again what I was. And through it all I lived, to see it all And know my part in it, with a heart that thought "I am that which I have felt, that which I am." I did but keep the thought, and strove in vain To put the two qualities together Whither it proved at conflict each other's lord. I strove and failed, and dreaming that the dream Must eternal, stalk alongside of sleep, I swept along it, and across it, defiant; Till my will bowed down, my power was gone, My peace, my love, all broken--till I found Ourslave, the hard master, and my lot. Where is your daughter now? Can this be death? Or has the old enamoring memory Taken leave thereof? Could old affection die So quickly? Or is she hiding distant With her beloved to some foreign clime? Else would her mother be in cheerful plenary, Glad of her new-yfed years, and ask no more. Then is the heart whole, and from without Comes kindly summer, flinging blossoms here And there with whimsical caprices, Till all the woods and fields are gay, While everything sings. But when the air Sends sleeping on the brain a dim Necessity, it falleth out, And suddenly the heart is dumb. I saw you wander in the city, Furtive and intent; I could not tell What attracted you each step to grasp, What confused impulse doth offend Against all rule and known right sensation, Urging you each to keep a lookout, Each out of the road, and, swift to spoil, To snatch the lighter from the drier, And loitering in the room each tryst to make, And talking in a foreign tongue unreproved, Thrust into each hand a carpet bomb to throw. Then would I turn and flee in terror; But now the terror part is past, And fled is every impulse rude; I deem it high time they should deliver The catalpa tree from its ignorance, And pluck its wretchedness to spurn. But ah, it is not well with me; I linger on from peril to peril; My hands are ravenous; and my heart Would trifle up the daisies, and eat up The mild catalpa; I do not know That it is better to fly or struggle. These are not charms to keep me safe, But only burdens to baffle; My fortunes are as boundless, my fame As shaky; I would not trifle them, For nothing would all as much, But I shall still be after--for what? Or after what? for nothing at all; And after after all one day will come A final nothing; when I shall rest, And after me, many a fig shall go. I do not know which to prefer-- The pluck or riches, or the power Or courtesy or talk; For all are burdens, in some shape, And all are dreams; I think it best Just to do my duty well, In what I understand and know, And to be still and dead. Perhaps this frailty of mine, <|endoftext|> Some cool, hushed night, with shutters down, Their cloister window wide left open; And sound as of a city smothered In dust of night traffic and flight. What name shall the letter T under, As in old times on cards it went? Now only men who work in boats, Or work upon barges, know its true Grammatical name, schooner. None shall come forth, for three years, This T, to see her--for to her England gives back all lands beyond Great Stour, to the Umberry! The silver Queen has gone Into the silver royal bride, With her pale feet treading clouds. No mockeries or mirthful laugh Shall cross the glimmering radiance of her Moon-bright eyes; nor shall her cheek One smock make of its jetty fringe Or snare her with any clasp Of necklaces; no man-made thing Of mutual compliment. All her toil and all her pain, Save one rose at her heart, Shall fall on England next. For now The people shall stand bare To her great leading; her deep Vision, her keen uttermost Thought. Is that a figure? and is that face With those of men whom men love? Is that the one vision, boy, Of all the weeks and days and years? Dare you not point at me, and say This one on yonder bough is she? Trying to hear The shadow of a music by Which you but seemed to be; Floating shadows, and far away Where, ere the vision far had sped, Did strike a note so sweet, Such music never yet had been: Hark, just at that time--whoops and joys, And night's fair morn breaking goldenly! And at your feet Floated like a funeral shadow-- Not of your mother, but of a flower, Calm and morosely swaying there By the perfumed and lucent sunset. Above, around, Away, like puffs of wind, The shadow murmured of itself In a faint back-song, and then, Again, Like fern leaves, it was gone! Oh, friend of mine, So brief its meeting, sad its truth, And full of pain and doubly sweet! Is it a dream of Meeting! Yes! though you kneel away From me you love, Here in the shadow by this rose, I can but love you, for a little while And sing your song. Since we must part, go on! Is that all? Our books, our classes, and all the travail That lengthens life's week into months; The newspaper dispute, the light that burns To trail the censors; each for himself, A restless obsession--to be free From all restraint, regulation, control, And no more knowing what to do or say! I would forget it all-- But could I do it? No! not without Deep scars and writhing pains, and selfish shame. O, my poor love! let it all go! Give me your hands, and I will kiss them. One little parting sign, my love, May teach us all. For, ah, there is much That one may keep, until the end. Bid me hold nothing from your sight Beyond this, and hold from heart and brain Clear as the day, and passionate as love: Else may the last dim traces slip, And, on the earth, we shall lose them not. I stood on Goteborg Bridge, looking down Over the harbor like a loving child: The lights and cries and voices I could leave To you, when you should come and know the rest. But in the distance I could hear the song Of the skerrygulls, and passing near and near, I could hear far-off cries of shore birds singing, And sounding bells; and faintly, like a sword Of shining wind, the song of waves could be heard. And then I thought: "It must be, my love, now We are here by the happy will of Heaven! And I remember life, long languished for, By your dear hands! For I have lived for you! Lived as a dying lion for your feet! Lived till my life could scantly use or know. Ah, could I die now for your dear love's sake!" The bells are ringing, and the minster star Gleams o'er me, but my weary soul is lost In the past; for whom should I for Heaven pray, But thee, where thou art never grieving now? And ever, as I walk alone, regretting The changes of our life, my soul forgets The future which is not; till suddenly A voice interposes-- Dear eyes, that shining with a mastery Filled with immortal light, Bright as the first bold star in morning's sky, Or midnight's star that guides the hapless man On life's doubtful path; Through all thy glory let my spirit find One abiding trust; Still let my dreaming blush to greater things Than even thine eyes can dream! For I have known and loved thee; For I have sung thy song; For I have drunk thy wine of joy In every shining cloud; For every tenderness that made thee The haven and the bliss Wherein my soul did dwell Have I have loved thee; And I have hung thy flowers around me In every thought; And I have stirred them into life again To sigh with joy; And I have washed them again to bone To tread again with life Upon the soil of my heart; And I have washed away my tears And my heart's blood, And I have laid me down to die In thy childlike arms. Ah, dearest eyes, That through the visioned dome Of Eternity peer, What mad emotions revolv'd At my soul whilere, At the threshold of thine arms With wild delight! Oh, heart in heart divine, Love and laughter blending, Can it be true, That thou dost bind me here In love's dear chains? Yes, it can,--and I am thine In death as life! Oh, were it ever yet so rare That fettered lovers should reveal Each to each, And freedom for amends invoke For yonder bonds, Oh! who could deem it then, Were he not ruled by Fate That Love should break the sinewy link That even elbows loose The feet of heaven? Oh, heart in heart divine, Love and laughter combining, Can it be true, That thou dost bind me here In love's dear chains? Oh, no, it can not be true, That thou and Love wilt tarry For ever o'er my form; No, it is decreed as true, That thou and I must part! Oh, heart, heart, heart, Blithe to leave these arms of thine, Ah! never, never more I shall thee see! No, never, never! The thought is wild That he who has my heart should lose And grievous wrong thereby. Aha! he has not; for Heaven forbids That I should bond with Violence My brother's love; yet, still I feel, Love shall not let Love be conquered Till he shall feel the sorrier seed Of that which I have seen. Love holds his belt of death about my life, And I am girt with the sword of grief. I would forget That such a time should ever be; But haply Love may see it fit That I should face the menace plain Of one who lacks neither pride nor grace, And has my heart. I have hearken'd when all below me ring'd The dead bone melodious, and when forceps rang In piteous tenderest thrill, and gulls wheel'd In pale unmalicious gleam, And when below the road a deserted place Awaited the dweller, who at last came And lo! I saw him pale as death and worn; And in his hand a book he bore, that fall'n Seem'd paper, but was written BOOK. O drunken Youth, that thus with eyes of pride Would rise and fling a look of fear! Upon thy swollen cheek the air has drank That color, youth, which may not return; And the deep eye-brow, by which the tear is made, Is foul with a superfluity. Behold this friendly smile for a token, Thou hast no power ope my smiling heart! The vision when the face hath passed away, And the gaunt lips by Arno's marge Droop in the hollow of the heart, And the dry lips quiver on the lid, And the mouth that smiles so at thee, I wis, Would envy thy pale grim grinning visage! And that hearty laugh, still piercing loud, Would turn to a shuddering laugh-shock <|endoftext|> But, as he breathed and wooed me, a change Came o'er my spirit, and, with a start, I saw How that he loved me! How the man not thought In such a thought the soul would melt and break. As I turned to go into the rose-wreathed bower, He held me. No word was spoken: we stood As lovers long beloved, face to face, One in our very innocence, one; In sooth, the boy's all modesty, you see! And the pride of the maid's love is her pride, But the woman's all blush and flushes. We stood Face to face, as two sisters hand in hand, Eyes met eyes, and mute I waited for his kiss; When it fell suddenly upon my ear: Oh, silent night! Oh, silence and the rose-bowers! He had fallen on his elbow: his round arm Stretched across his shoulder, and he pressed me Close to his side as if afraid that I Might leap up and escape: his face was bared To the bearded cheek-bone, and he bit his lips Till they bled; and there was blood-lust thick on his look. I have known men in the crowded city places Who were good people, devoted to God, And yet were foolish, though they could not judge That others' religion infringed their own; And I have known rich men who were proud and vain Beyond the common man, and yet were poor, And yet were simple and innocent; and I Knew men who were mad or drunk or guilty, But never did harm to another soul. So it was with this dear, gloried man: He made my fancy at the last depart For ever from his person, and I rose, And I looked into his face as far As from the rest, and then I turned away, And with a sigh I said, "Alas! My friend, We must part: what is that thing which you hold, Which loves to move your face and hands to move?" "Oh, that!" he answered. "It is my Mantel le Brate." He took it from his belt and kissed me where The silver ornament gleamed on my lips, Then he turned to where his arm was clasped, And he held it awhile--for all at once I saw his thoughts upon his face move; And as I turned I heard him say to me, "You are the lady-love of this very night! You will find him at the mill-wheel at morn. So, adieu! A thousand greetings of love From you I'll send to your cold, unmarked ear!" Then he spoke low, as though some footstep fell, "And be beware! For one thing, beware: I've a ring of steel upon the handle!" Oh! 'tis an ancient legend--it may be A Frenchman of our Belle Vue worshipped the moon Because it looked upon the grass and trees, And, whenever that being had an hour to kill, He clasped it round and kissed it, and hung it up. There being an eclipse that year, the boy Himself rolled in his bed and covered up, But when he looked, his lover was safe and sound, And from that night he turned a bitterer man. I come to fill your cup and bump your hand, And ye shall see the duke, the clown, and me. The gown that yonder wears, were it but new, Would be a dainty lining for my shirt; The watch that glances at its hands, would make A very sweet ivory knob in mine; And the ring that, from its binding, shows Just how good, indeed, my man may be. This French dandy does give me big cause To think and question, "Is wifely duty" A thing at all in wife or maid?" A ship that capsizes and a lighthouse that steers, A house that sinks and ten pinholes in the air, A couple in prison and a butcher in the block, Ten men on a sinking steamer and only one alive-- This is a true story, my dear. I have heard that many a time A sailor's life is in the line While face to face with error he stands, Yet seeks with half a wry mouth And pursed lips of spare deception To mask his blank despair. They lie alone in bed That never more shall tarry; They never more shall tarry But for the boon of sleep that follows The sinking of the sea. Singing alone in bed That never more shall tarry, They woo each passing minute With half a smile that baffles Its meaning half as deep. Oh! they will never now tarry But for the boon of sleep that follows The sinking of the sea. Passionate passion is spent, And spurned pleasure lies With snow-white wings above, And planets glinting at rest, Beneath the stars of May. Passionate passion is spent In sighs that never will be For ever wonted, late, To rise and trail their trailing white Past all one's best expectations; And passion has won, for the sake Of one that chanced her days In brighter spaces flying, A better tomorrow Than time or space could bring. I cannot say if love were A thing that dwells in me, Or merely comes and goes; I do not know how one With another's mind might mingle Feeling and striving. Perhaps at one time, I said, It moved in me. A little, And then a little more, Till its mysterious sway Was center of my being, And all my thoughts were spun From this transmuting fact. A little something something beyond, Which there depicted seem'd to be Relating to a man's world, Had drawn me, as it seem'd, All from all worlds and things apart, And made me one in aye. A little something something that never Had of its own the power to be Was all in me, and spin the same Times the same with all the rest, And brought to me from all those years And places all around the earth All men and women I had seen. So while the little something standing, And swaying to and fro, Was never mov'd at all to tears, I wept a little--then I fell. And when it cease I never wept, And can I ever say I felt More pity for the piteous dead Than when I met those eyes of mine. Dear are the serenades Which, in the moonlight clear, With subdued accents, sweet and low, A cadence weave; And all the bright, grey world Is full of sweeter songs. Dear are the feet that dance In glee's hintling measures; Light is the foot that sweeps An ocean chime. A breath of Love is there At movement's farthest reaches. But dearer far, when night With misty fingers weaves The web of days that lie In shadowy morrows, there With heart's new gladness beams The Soul's eternal web. Oh, when the moon is overhead All beauty that God hath given, And hearts are low and tender, Oh, comes the lightness of the moon Into that darkness there. And then the moon, that lightens here, When night is here alone, Sends out her sweetest, tenderest smile O'er life's most lonely hours. The grove, the forest, with dead leaves strown, We see no more; only a heap Of dust lies lonely where the flowers That dreamed of spring are laid to sleep, Where summer rains have begun to fall. And still the world of storms, that seems Like some vast wreck of lovely dreams, Has left upon this heap of clay A melancholy grace. O wild and wintry world, beyond All human ken, thy winds and gleams Have left a beauty that will last! How beautiful is Nature's scheme, How fair in death those silent hills! There is no frost in the mossy fiord, Where once we wandered by the smiling down Of a rivulet that led to shore; But every moss-green birch is shivered here, And every beechen texture hollowed and scarred. The leaves that wave against the wintry sky Have all now vanished, they have flown apart; And we only see the overtoe, now, In pictures, and among sculpture, worn, And in the imagination they were. For here at the winter edge the high And lone spires of Fairmount, alway Are shivered, and the marble terraces, And shrines of the Good, restored to silence. For here the Hope, the Dream, of the ages, Has risen in man's pure expression high. O Faith in the good, O Hope in the dreams <|endoftext|> Lingering at last at great Alp, where over forty thousand mares In crowded stalls and in majestic array, To-heigh ho! there came the bold Sir Galahad to strike him dead Over those giant shoulders thrust in stony array, As fiercely grasped the lofty arms and determined foe. So a mind which scorns may grasp its enemy's weapon, Striving in vain the stubborn point to meet and conquer; But a mind subdued by hero-poetry must yield And melting into sweet song with base-borne rhyme, Yet not the mean-born son of earth can bear it, For gods and heroes worship in the singing air. How blest is he who, queen of earth and star of song, Through all the busy tumult of his bustling days, Doth wear and limb himself a crown of peace, And bathes in His all-embracing grace. Nought can molest him save that soul-stinging roar That from the torturing lips of folk insulted of yore. And he who walks with God by instinct alone, Allured by naught of craft or foe plotting, When to him strikes maid or mate or cradle-brethren As out of place and accursed before him rose, He also might have been stricken with madness wild; But for his sinning was saved of God the merciful. There is a Magic on Romance, that seems to have Entered with the seas the magic of its coomb-swelling; And in the ring of it now we have an Immortal, Still to be expanded as more and more man slumbers And takes in his slumbers a wider magic-power; But, woe betide him! he has left the Rock of Ages For other foes and other allurements and new lays. O Magic of the seas! before me still your waves Breathe back your lost enchantment, unafraid Of new conquerors, that wake a World to-day; But while your billows sing your enchanted lays Till each carols as it were a-march to some feast, Hence let me take and pipe my enchantment in: Alone of all ye are not worthy to possess Your shattered story, but be enchanted of me. Ye sages of Alcinous, were ye in the days Of our fathers with your lore so mightily prized, Of Ismarus and the ships of Mysia great, Or of Ismarus the whiting, when from sail Down fled the foe, and backward, backward they drove Thestrear, this way and that way shifting shore Roving the sea, till all their godly wand could e'er Get freely home and settle to its full delight Of remote starry eaves and unknown honeycombs. O youth of Phrygian land, most fruitful was thy word And true, most perfectly of time and place; Then came not on us such sorcery in song, Nor such mystery of love as now must ever Embody the spirit of our mortal days. They that love think not magic of the song, the thought; But those that drink not of the wine of Love know not The magic wine's secret, are not of the wine. Many a man I knew that loved most wondrous art, Yet knew not whence the secret of his bliss: Some had heard the riddle shining on the wall And cleared it by a logical solution; But of the solution they the riddle told, Nor the full truth one scrap were willing to keep. I will not name the land; but ye men of Rome, Ye that before your Appian Way's high following Have nummed the domes and the bays with horse-flesh Too dark to value or tollerable worth, I would have choice of all cures for love diseased If Love were disease. Go after Micon; if the statues break his craft, Warn him that riddles must always be unspotted, Then cut off his wings with ease if yet he fly; But if he be the god, not mortal to outride The stings of disillusion and its twin anesthesia, Then drive him back, or the gods, with what is mightiest To stamp the image of the absent on the mind As unto the Earth, wherefrom all images spring. But, heart, how should I tell thee, but that from thee The empire of the buried things and the dead Alike is gone, and thou art fain to leave Thy memory, and goest among the rest, And riddles arise, and music and the breath Of flowers, whose music thou art quitted of days. Nay, God be with you! and thou, O Music, with thee O lordly Mind, that lordliest of all divinities, Amidst this ruin and this sleeper's trance Of vacant eyes and laughing lips and mellow breath, Art milder yet, O Love, and do not make them vain; But take and keep them and renew them from year to year. After all, she waneth in her thornless ways As in a dream; or like one that looks in vain Upon the sun, whose light is past after sight, Leaves her forlorn, and knows not any more If it be summer or winter any more. Her violet eyes are wet with dew-drenched rain, Her lips wax wetter, and her heart waxes sore For him she feareth not, and her forehead greener With secrets hidden. Sickness hath not quenched her smile, But sickness makes her grieve With grief that must not be expressed, That must be slaked By tears she doth not take; They fall like rain, But she slakes not. It may be Joy has done this, But he hath gone away, And she hath nought to say. Oh, this was night of plenty, When all the world was gay In merry April's bower; When rain and sun went hand in hand And sun was bright and rain was cold, And the buds on the milk-white haw Were filled to bursting with delight. There was naught to do or to see; The roll of cart or the stirring swine Did keep us all awake; The whistling wind and the bustling bee Possessed us with pleasant sham here; And we did sing, to please our ear, The chanticleer's psalm: But now the leaves are all aflame, The cows' and horses' bells are ringing Their merriment for all to hear, The rain is over and the sun is dying, And with the night the brown leaves fall; The birds, unwilling, join their moan To that of our wrongs or rejoicings; The very shadows are troubled. Shapes, that among the brushwood Ne'er called us homeward, Now show their face before our faces, They whisper us to speak: In some a word, in some a smile, At ease in some a sigh; Like shadows in a brook, They stand and whisper us to speak. Shapes without voices, Grim things without teeth, With eyes like sparks of fire That glare upon the conscious, That are not brotherly-- Shapes that stand and gibber When speak becomes a mask. Shapes that take up our souls Like water through a pine-wood That never knows the green: Shapes that, like strong blasts, Bring with them dim mists of doubt And blackened thorns of unhappiness. Now all the world is fast asleep With stiff, unsoftened sides, While mother-hands, in sleep's weak chain, Bend down the yellow oats; And while the cabbage heads slackly bend Like bended sorbents low, And nestlings like large gems on the wall Glisten like great lights on a dream, We walk along, keeping time, And counting each laid egg. Two little birds sat on a stone To sing, and they talked of heaven, With eyes a-feed-them-too: "When will it be, my mother, When we shall go away? When will it be, my mother, When I shall fly away?" The little birds sat down again, As quick as eagles they, But they did not sing so very well With no chicken to croon. "When will it be, my mother, When we shall go away? When will it be, my mother, When I shall fly away?" And then one said, "I don't know, But I think of a golden tree Where little babies grow, And down we'll go, down we will go Till never one of us is tired, Till we reach heaven's gate, And go over that bright blue river, And don't drop, and don't faint, And baby chickenlings sing A song they never forgot." But the other said, "I don't know Why little birds should fly, And at God's bright blue river It might be, my mother, That we never would return." <|endoftext|> Divinely, in my heart; And I love my life with a love deep and free As no prisoned bird can long endure. I am burning to tell you all my mood Because I feel I cannot stay; My dear old heart throbs suddenly, I know not how to ward its smart. My tears are falling fast, They are springing up so fast That they must dry ere you know it. You that are far away, Far away, Never will be glad again for me Since I have given you your heart. My heart has turned to stone, Love can never bring it full Again. Once, when I was full of joy Beloved, I kissed your breast, Kissed you with passionate kiss, Beloved, and it was not right. I felt a burning rage, A burning rage to know You did not love me. Once, when I was fearful place, Dreadful to fly or run, Kissed your throat, dread disgusting place, Piteous, spastic, sickening, sweet. With trembling lips, I hoped you would not know, Lingering, loving so, I hoped you would not know. Now, when I am desperate place, Sorrowful, shaking, pale, Kiss your throat, let me die with thirst; Ah me, I am consumed with thirst; Ah me, my heart is dry. There is no atmosphere Nor downward sound of wave Nor river going to stream. Because my love is home, Where I am loved and known, Your beautiful name is sweet In my heart of hearts, my dear. It is strange you should be So vile, so evil, sad, To my heart of hearts. My beautiful home, whose evening star Is falling ever beautiful, That I might sweetly sing to you Even while I am fearing, doubting; Even while my brave brave breast Under the stroke of sorrow cries: "I have loved you with a love worth all, Ah! When I am passing, dying, dying, I will shut my eyes against The night that is dark to you, dark. But if they open let them see How dumb I am, and dead." I have found a nest That is softer than a leaf And stronger than a tree, A resting place for dove, And bird-begotten, ever nigh A tearful near-connected eye. Sheltered warm and dry From north wind and efery slur Of sea wind wild and untame, But steady as God's own compass And lost in nature's ways, A dome of domes, I hear the piping voice Of many murmuring waters, Of dazed suns and sun-enjoying, Of earth in birth and change, Of heaven in inevitable motion. I know you, above, With undecipherable speech; I know you, below, And all your mysteries Between your walls of sound My lips have found no way. There is a prayer Sung by the starry choir, There is a song Rippled through space, It is my nature To know the chant. Beloved, you have held me Amid life's harshness And smiled and let me play; No storm was present And I was only The heartbeat within your heart. We know each other so long We hardly remember The faces, the hearts And all the longings of youth. Your golden hair, Blue orbs beyond speech, Your soul's calm and busy unfolding, My love, I've studied architecture; I've made plans and drawn plans And all are as infirm As the soulless stone That feeds the giant earth mill. I was a child, And you were a child, When first we touched each other; And I am a man Now, you are a woman. I knew you once When you were a child And a woman too; And all my childish dreams Of architecture and song Come true at last. Though I have never built Nor thought nor dreamed nor dreamed; Though all my fancy feels Only unnatural fear, You have given me, to-night, A tender and exultant vision. You were a child And I a man; And all my childish dreams Of architecture and song Are come true at last. At last, at last We stand together, hand in hand, Hand upon breast and face, Hand where the music grows still, Hand where the shadows flee, Hand of infinity. O beauty as ancient as the hills Hear we the voices of the gods, The singing of the fays, The laughter of the bubbling streams; We will renew the splendour of old, Renew the flame of Praise. For we will fill the spaces where the gods have been; Take the forms of old immortals; We will stand on idles of the vallies, Upon the shoulders of the peak, We will stand where lochs and rocks are fretting, Where the cottage-browets are climbing. And all the fields and all the meadows We will amble through, While never a sentinel Lifts the latch or fetches the latch; And we will enter in and out and about The shadowy of the fell; Or alleys we will roam through, Where, through the hedge's arched arch, Ranks the bluebell tinkling; Or throw ourselves in little tumblers Through the trodden places, Where the way goes wild and the gate Lingers, little changed from old. The Thames we will chat on, Until we move with it; For we have travelled many a mile, And many a mile to go; And now, the fords we must pass, The churning river's channel, Until we reel, too, with it, Rocked round with dreams and with thoughts. Once more we will strike up, At evening, in the shack beside the brook, And light the match, Flit limping back to camp, With the night's denizen For guest in our mess that night. We will sup together, On the haggard banks of the river; And whatever is done, Of our jaunt that night, We'll be merry together, And never whisper together, Never break in upon each other, Never together murmur. I will whistle to you, girls, A little song I learnt In a land of endless spring: There are yellow leaves on every tree, And breezes in the sun, And sunshine on the brooklet, And melodies in the streams. The sweet brown partridge screams in the breakers, Shouting his hedgercairn frae the brae; He marks the gilded bauble on the dam, And the gowan frae the lap of the brae; And the spavined linnet in the alder brae, Sees his flame-haired Mary. The redbreast hot frae the clashing dame, Flaps sad Bavards to the breeze; He sings to the lass o' Lemslie-fare, Fair o'er the ferns at e'ening bleeking; His merry self on the milk-white mare, Blythe at sluicing. The blackbird hot frae the slipper claver, Sings pouches of sick to the stroke; He sleeps at rest by the mill-dam, Lamps hidden in the whey-white gybes; And the blackbird at his partner's breast, Sings as gay in the spring. The redbreast hot frae the rapids, Far frae the brae o' juniper, Sings blue bells o'er the ither's brier, "Cauld winter ither; You're as wested awa, ye savage! Ye know na, nane, ane, anither!" He sings to the lass o' Lemslie-fare, Sae sweet and saucy while it snaws; And a' his pleasure and content, Hath been to watch o' the milkmaid's lane. Nae ship could be sae cauld and stark, And gang out o' the milkmaid's milk, As it is now sune a' day. The blackbird hot frae the hot bracken, Far frae the bank o' the brae, Sings green bells o' the blossom-trees, "The bugham is bonny, you beastie, A bonnier auld man ne'er ran. I winna ba' them aire, you shaft! But ither than myself. "I dance the flamingos willows, The red canary dives, The kittiwake croaches, the crested parakeets, The throstles drapes; <|endoftext|> he can hear my soul. I want to say to you how you look at the mountains in the moonlight in your sopping jean and oxblood shirt, pondering deeply and often yet not entirely knowing to what you're drawing the landscapes of ancient dreaming. <|endoftext|> "Rehab", by Cathy Park Hong When I awake from a long spell of sleep, water the plants, gather the morning dirt, I'm giddy and frightened. I'm suddenly aware of every little sound outside becoming more mean, as if the door behind me is opening. I'm suddenly aware of my high heels, grinding the polished floor. And when my eyes open, looking through the peephole, there she is, her face disfigured, holding a toddler in her arms. I sit there, not surprised, and watch for a while. But my heart sags—what can she be thinking?— as I watch, my own heart grunting, as if it were a few legs down the block and she needed a hug. <|endoftext|> "National Cherry Day", by Wei Houn Sieh National Cherry Day the air thick with the scent of the blossoms a ritual, not a day the buds inside each bud are held together in endless memory it's that they remember the day they blossomed their faces still hunched in anticipation the days of their green fingers coming to give thanks the bells across the country ringing the faithful still waiting to be freed from the bonsai trees which held them all these years <|endoftext|> "Day and Night in Nanking", by Wei Houn Sieh [Social Commentaries, History & Politics, War & Conflict] Day and night in Nanking thick smog blanketing the city thousands died from breathing cheeringly referring to the Sino-Japanese War as early dawn broke showing only fog shadows of streets already clearing dead internees who went mad with longing trying to get to Japan already clearing grieving feverishly every minute one must have lived through such hell early morning as feng shui swept across the square gathering into groups discussing whether the dark earth smudges looked apocalyptic whether napping in this posture turns one into a savage some still tried to ignore the danger not realizing they had only hours until the city they knew would all be ashes <|endoftext|> "The Year of Transtrarium", by Sharon Olds [Nature, Fall, Trees & Flowers, Religion, Buddhism, Easter] Gloomy autumn weather in Sept., the crackling brush fires of late summer, the mottled leaves inside rotten stalks, pale meadows in late winter, a final rush of rivulets on hillsides, and now this: transtrariums. So like summer and autumn together, they are. But they're not. They're three times a year three hundred and eighty-four for a span of three thousand and three, coming on so fast it doesn't seem, suddenly, that any ground at all was ever level. That everything is curved. <|endoftext|> "Glossary of Names", by Kathleen Jamie [Living, Disappointment & Failure, Parenthood, Relationships, Family & Ancestors] Alice (first person singular): A named person or thing Alice (plural): A named tribe of people, usually rural Bobbing (ablative): Obtaining an identity by belonging to a particular sexual group Bunnyhug: A bondage style in which a female subject forcibly hugs an anthropomorphic animal, typically a child or animal Carnivore: An animal that eats meat Child star (a): A child who has attained celebrity Christmas without Christ: An Americanized version of the customs and practices of Eastern Europe Christmas in the western world: An Americanized version of the customs and practices of the United Kingdom Chimerical (biliterational): Organized by birth, rather than time, instead of allegiance Classical music: Music created and performed during the time period known as Classical Europe Clean (in spirit): Fit into society according to one's capacity Cooperative movement: The system of self-help and community action known as anarchism Cortège: A traditional French dance Croissant: A croissant is a kind of shortbread Darkness (agony): The shadow produced when darkness is placed within the center of a new light source Dead baby: The body of a dead baby found outside its grave Dieu, c'est la guerre: A man's first name and a word indicating devotion Déjeuner à bell ét interidait: A Frenchman treated as an outsider Divine environment: An environment that is divine Do-si-do-dous: An expression meaning madam or ma femme Drinking a glass of wine: Drinking a glass of wine, followed by the words "as near as possible" English: The language of English lawyers False vowels: Vowels that are sounded but do not mean anything Fiddler's chapeau: A revealing brooch or a costume suitable for a gentleman Flying kites: Gyroscopically charged aerial weapons systems Forbidden fruit: A poem in Greek France (the language of): A country French television: A government-subsidized private system French horizon: A large, empty area Fountain pen (notebooks): A device invented by and for the underprivileged Fumaric: A writer or a state of being that performs dreams and hallucinations Friday (habit): A day of absence or absence (feeling) Frosh dream: A dream of being a boy Full moon: An idealized conception of the full moon Galant: A gallant deed Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire: A fantasy series written in a fantasy universe, but based on an unaltered history Girlie: A juvenile name for a woman Get well soon, darling: Deprecate illness Get well, chump: Deprecate illness Get well, yours truly: Deprecate illness Girl, you better: Exclamation of surprise, usually accompanied by exclamation marks Ghetto: A term that describes a milieu of inferiority Give it up: Stop talking Give up the bag: Quit Ghetto (part): The part of the ghetto in which one was born Glasses: Tables that people sit at Go to Hell: Deprecate illness Go to Nowhere: Deprecate illness Good day: Deprecate illness Good afternoon: Good afternoon Good night: Deprecate illness Good wise fellow: To humbly accept one's condition Grandma: The opposite of a bitch Green (form): An ideal of beauty Grilled: Pronounced with the back of the hand Grammar, Grammar, grammar: The art or science of language Greeting: A cue or signal Hand: The male genitals Happy hour: A private meeting between two individuals Hard hat: A term of endearment Hair: An ornamentation of the hair Hard-on: A term of endearment for a penis Harry Dick: A person with whom one might easily engage in casual conversation Headset: A restraining device designed to protect the genitals He's got (the) nuts (to) hold: To admit one's vulnerability He's hitting on me: To admit one's vulnerability He's groveling: To admit vulnerability High-five: A salute Hook (me): To steal or usurp the voice I've seen those eyes before: To experience fear I want (what) in my sight: What I want Indication: To convey the sense of requesting I've seen those eyes before: To experience fear Intent (to): To permit optional activity It's hard to make out: To make an adequate verbal response It was (is) that (that) (thing): A term of endearment James (Caitlyn): An employee of the DC public schools Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice: A popular novels of the mid-nineteenth century Jessie: A gender neutral term for baby Jet: To receive sexual pleasure Jump (sit): To experience sexual pleasure Jump up (lie): To remain sexual calm Jump up (lie down): To remain sexual calm Jump, just for fun: To do something for fun Jump, jump (someone): To compete in an event for fun Juicy: Term of endearment for fruits and vegetables K (side) ko (back): To remove sexual comfort Kinky: Term of endearment for the genitals Knot (knot): To weave verbal or non-verbal connections Kitchen (kitchen) escapees: Persons who have made a successful escape from a kitchen Knot (knot) on (knot): To identify with a character or idea by wearing a fashion style identical to that of that character or idea Knot (knot) in (kitchen) teeth: To cause pain to that person or to ensure that person pain Know the (act): Know that (act) Know (know) / Know one up close: To face (face) an entity up close <|endoftext|> More precious and more rare the shop-window…I wish She'd come now, for the wind was stout the last I felt and I'm dreadfully cold. <|endoftext|> "To a Broken Man", by Thomas Hardy [Living, Death, Sorrow & Grieving, Relationships, Friends & Enemies, Nature, Weather, Winter, Mythology & Folklore, Ghosts & the Supernatural] Often we go out to 'ounds when all at once we go down,Down into the earth we once lived in.Those days are still; we haven't mixed with the wicked brigade Who are gathering for the war.We haven't changed. We're just as bad as we wereThen, and quite possibly much worse;And they've grown wiser. They're no longer youth,But sin, with its know-nothings.Before this modern wildernessWe were not so different from the multitudeOf vagrants who, by day and night,Chose from the last reserve of breadBread which they hated to eatIn the warm nest of the host. We knewThe scent of the bouquet by the door;And we picked the brains of the family flower,As they went to seed. The family graveWas no more to be distinguishedFrom the grass that grew there thanWe from the common grass. We were not knownAs we were. We never were seen.Now we're everywhere. We are the guestsYou never invited, but you keep invitingJust as if we were the trespassers.You're sorry now; you can't imagineHow we could be so uninvited.Your apologies multiply,And multiply and multiply. Out you go,Sorto, to your kindred spirits,The stoners and the pimps and the dealersIn the glories of August; and we,Quit being surprised and out again,Return to the hard world, to the trailAnd to the honest blunderThat made us sober; and the trailPasses before us like the corpse.One thing we are certain of, that inThe coming days each will regretHaving brought us into the world,For we have made the wild world beautifulAnd the works of folly glorious,And we have thrown out the golden babesWho would have been kings. <|endoftext|> "Moonlight: Canto 1", by Ezra Pound [Love, Heartache & Loss, Infatuation & Crushes, Romantic Love, Unrequited Love, Relationships, Farewells & Good Luck, Valentine's Day] Canto 1 I Made a distracted attempt to weepTo-night. My heart is broke. This frosty airIs barren and boring. I do not careTo live. But do not laugh,For I shall not be laughing long.Love lies in bed thirsty and sickAnd I have placed him there. YetI think it is good that he sleep alone.I have heard of beds of soul and something like them,Where there is neither sound of footNor any man anywhere near his head.I have heard that they are rare. I do not want one.Yet I should like to be held by somethingAfter I am dead, after I am gone.That would be good, I think. I would not be held by you.I am not in the least your enemy.Yet I did make a mad, mad attemptTo kill you. I do not do that kind of thingPlainly. The attempt was feeble at best.Yet all my anger gets tepidAnd sags toward possibility each day.Duty and duty both unbiddenBut both too mild and both too nearAt times to help me one whit.I am chilled by everyone I meet.This shop is dead cold. It is bitterly cold.The clerk is dead, with his black stocking capAnd his yellow hair. He wears no hatAnd, though the counter is quiet now,There is a space warm for only one,Nor any space for two. And I knowThat he has come here to watch and waitFor you. The fire burns white. We shall not see each other moreUntil you come. And then we will not speak. And I will wait besideThis pile that does not feel like home to me.I will not fear for you, nor will I boast. I am likeThat yellow lechen, crooked and scaly,That creeps under stone in the black pitWhere the burrowers sleep. I shall not consoleYou. I shall not protect you. I shallNot even pretend to be what I might be.I shall not flinch if you go. I shallNot avert my face if you turn. I shallNot leave you with your fire unlit. Do you see How it glows? Do you see how it glows? And this is not mine. This is not mine. Do you see? Not mine. This is not mine. This is not mine.This is a poor place to dwell in if indeedIt is not mine. Yet I shall not quench it even if I could.I shall watch it from the white stove window and the black pot on the hob.I shall not be scared by it. I shall not be touching it with my hands. I shall not be hugging it and climbing on it and kissing it and trying to be it if I could.I shall stand where I was standing when it all began. And this is mine. This is mine. This is mine. <|endoftext|> "Sympathy", by George Oppen My mother I did not love her. I could not believe her all my life. Why did I love her? I cannot believe her all my life. I stood in my mother's bedroom some days and others I slept there. She breathed in that bedroom. She lived in that bedroom. And she would not be that anymore. <|endoftext|> "The Lullaby of Charles I", by John Fuller [Relationships, Family & Ancestors, Social Commentaries, History & Politics, Heroes & Patriotism] Walking through the Tartanic moods, with Hell be going, I know that the worst has happened, that now I am safe. For now you cannot say that I am a foreigner on this earth or that my language is not English or that no one will speak to me in English any more. Now you smile, and say nothing in English to a native of this earth. Now you sing in English and tell me to sleep in English. And so we will sing and smile and walk through the lullaby together. I know that you are somewhere safe too, that you have not signed away your soul to a despot, that you are not dead, and that soon you will be alive again. The tyrant is dead and it is late but the lullaby has not yet been written, and we still have much of lullaby to do. I knew that your mother was beautiful. I had seen her every day for two years. Her carters brought me too. Every night they brought you too and other boys. You would stand at your window looking out and I would dance on the sofa watching you. I knew you were to be fed and tended to and tended. I knew that your mother had money and would send gifts home to your new family. I knew that you would be used and lied to and tricked into many mistakes. I knew how fast the tyrant went about his wicked work. But I did not say these things to your indifferent eyes. I said them in flashes to the flickering images in your confused eyes. I said them as one says the wild swan's story to a dead bird. My lips said it over and over to your amazed eyes. I said it softly and I said it low. I said it still to this day to your blank eyes. I would dance close to your desk and pat you the way a mother would her baby. I would sing to you your multiplication pages. I would know all the books in the world by their binding. I would know the colors of all the books. I would know what you could say and what you could not say. I would dance on the sofa to the sound of your silence. Then I would dance away. And I am sorry. I am sorry. I would dance to the sound of you talking on the telephone. Or in meetings. Or walking in the street. Or riding the elevator. Or driving. I would dance for you in crowded places. I would dance to the sound of an audience. Or the rhythm of a reading. Or to the sound of someone murmuring to themselves. I would know the symptoms of disinterest. I would know the placement of subtitles. I would know the difference between excitement and applause. I would know the meaning of blindness and of blindness in action. I would know the story of anyone wearing dark glasses. Or anyone who drives a taxi. I would know the name of the dog in any picture book. I would know the answer to all questions. I would know how long it is now since anyone died. And I would dance. <|endoftext|> "The Long Goodbye", by John Updike [Living, Marriage & Companionship, Relationships, Men & Women, Social Commentaries] The man was a hunter, and the woman, a hunted. We sat together in a field long ago, when we were strangers, and did not speak. The woman's nails rubbed on the wound. <|endoftext|> Of master or of flocks Grown lean from thriftless savings. She from her double end Puts the stocking under, Bakes and sells little heaps To sustain the household, Takes her share of burdens When the Master goes. But let her linger At home, shut out from All that is good and fair, Yearly into the sunlight Devours her Till she, like the cuckoo Condemned to lick the damp, Drops into drowsy slumbers Where she does not do good. The housemaid makes no demands When there is food in kitchen, While the little boy at play Lays a million leagues away. Food and game and toy remain Unchewed and unmanaged, Meanwhile the wind of trouble Ridges and scatters harm. If you say 'Ting-a-ling,' Gold and silver and teeth go begging, Would you eat them or lose them? But if you say 'Ching-chong,' Diamonds for teeth and cash, Paying with yourself A fee for the job. Shopping for my husband, I paid a comely price; Twelve umbrellas For a nineteen. Looking at such a face, One hardly knows What he thinks of her, Where she comes from. Who will care what he thinks, As long as she takes? Such a face would never Poke the secret out. If I had a dollar For every man I know Whose love is as strong As my master's, I'd see What I'd never see. I call to the ghosts of Christmas past That float mutely down the Christmas stream,-- The good old ghosts, the lost good old times, When cradle, wood, and gold, And mothers were more than mothers are; When slumber, sleep, And birth, birth, Were three days in the week, And angels listened as we prayed; When the Christ-child slept To be born, Where He was born, With great people About Him blown From nations far away;-- I call to these dead things The dead of long ago, The shadows of another birth, To quicken and bless and keep me, In hours of labor, rest and play; With gleams Of fancy, In which I seem to name The very fashion of my pains, I call these sleeping things The dead of old time, I call the living spirit of me My husband, my comrade, my brother, My serving-man and my friend, My all in all, My fate, my fate; The one thing that I call Of all the things I call. I call the spirit of work To hurry my little dreams; I call the wisdom of doing The golden clouds that hover; I call the hands to labor As brown as gold and good as good; I call the bread to rise As slowly as I can; I call the child to heed The little voices of the Lord, And call His coming The best rest of labor yet; And call the poor Who patiently wait in the ditches For the relief of suffering, And call them members of the Church By that which the Church unites; Call the sick to do her part In helping me to do my part; I call, in short, The dead and living To speed me through the Christmas year, And speed me, all, through life, In faith and hope and charity; And call this the crown of all (Though in my sight It isn't the fruit but the flowers). I'll cut you a note of this,-- The best I have to give: Be thankful, have no fear, And as you live take more. This solemn, "By as you live" Will live with you in my heart; My poor old heart will break To think how many years We've been friends and foes, Since George and I were dead; But here's this nice little memory To make us two one, And to make you wonder Which is the living one. The dead and living friends, A row of graves is made; And your grave, and mine, I think, Yet shall be soon reconciled; I'll come to you and you to me, We two will live again; Our grave is green and ours is red, And, till we come again, Rest well assured We shall be praying For friends that are no more. My flowers are not the flowers of Spring, Nor have I the secret of Summer's charm; And Autumn's leaves no timely breath can throw, Like sunshine on my brow of wintry weather; But Autumn's crowds, in starry rows, Sit warding in the leafless dark of Winter. In grimy ward and lodging house low, Stands in the city's sleep the lord of wide domain; But when the beckoning sun has circulated Through the slumber of the night and day, Sudden an awful cry shall ring, And, hark! from high housetops overhead The jocund voice of living flame! Borne on the breath of Mountain Waves In tempest and on the wings of Air, Rains lap-sounding from his wings above, Falling on each overwhelmed tower; And with song and light the conquering sun Shines on the faces of the loving ones. Hushed are all the drones in ceaseless spin, All the Caspian powers that die in May; And in a vision of thrilled hearths, On an May morning all the flowers unfold New meanings of their nymph-like grace; Till the fugitive Elf-land, nocturnal, Drinks deep again the May-dew with blood! But oft before these elf-born Ones, Crowned with honey, have theirs ended, And the Elf-gods bring to each his Own May-philosophy of love, By the fire's bright serpents' light shrouded, They are caught by magic syllables, Whereat they call the Elf-breath back. Where the long vine rushes down the rock, Folded in many a fronded bough, Roses and wild-thyme obscure the air; Where the rambling ox-heads slowly float From the purple pampas to the sea, Smoke from their wagons' damp dim piles O'er the fringing edge of the grey-grown plain; Over the brake and over the plain, Down the bank and up the rise, Towards the west the torrents bear Their heavy gold and crimson dye; The roses of May-time appear Drenched with dewy light, and kissed with air; And the wild thyme and the rue are there, And the light mint and many a greater. Above, the heavy flapping of wing Splits the shuddering night in sunder, And the broad sun looks down with a smile On the earth whereon he is set; And the sails of the weather-cock, Nereid-broidered crimson at each sail, Glide fannishly through the golden haze. Fannishly foams the weather-cock O'er the green lapping of the sea; And the flower-soft bells of pines Tink softly to the winds above; And o'er the green waters float Dinghy and skiff, and light craft adrift From the harbors of the world or bight; And the light waves of the rivers Can then be seen like fish that leap To the air, and flashing darted by, While their silver crests splash again To and fro, and wander 'twixt their banks. And the land-winds in the east are keen To slay the foeman, if he venture near Their havens; and the signs are clear To foreign ships that think to anchor here. And many a dainty dame to freshen Her snowy bosom, from the turfed beach, Flashes white and glories, cutting the light. The beasts that plunge and hide in the deep Are out now, seeking the unknown light, Eagerness making them stately and bold As at the start for a race, where to come in Is to take the mouth, to set the mouth, and bee How the race proceeds, till 'twere best to shroud. All things that are the heralds are Homeward to their appointed fields, by night, Or by day; the vessel never hides Hope of the winds that cheer to a chime; And storms, that overturn what was green At fore-head, hale the things to meet the sun, Blanched and ash-colored; but they're hollow, and stand There by their moorings, with a whitish weight, at rest, And there is never any one to help and cheer, And they come home by the means of sails and oars. But more than all, a sweet memory To make me forget the narrow place <|endoftext|> And once a rescue ship Far from this coast we saw, With water ne'er tasted since For three long years, even whilere It carried from this land Names of human doom, Names of men in faraway lands, Names with wide eyes, blank and dry, I loved them all the more, Because they were my father's, My mother's, and my kin. From childhood's morning light Until nightfall drenched the earth You would find me by his side, With lips a-flutter to catch his breath, Holding his hand for mine own, We then or now have been Nameless for five long years, How changed your five short years appear! I said, I cannot lose you now. And when his lips denied it, I rose,--and clasped them and heeded naught. They laid him gently down in his grave; The quiet damsel therewithal Besought the silent dead that they should rise, And come again to crowd her bier: For nevermore could sound life fill her cup, Nor sweet delight thy heart supply, Nor any movement of thy busy hand Be to thy spirit common as dew; Nought get thee to thy leafy home like tears, But barren solitude with longing dumb And I could set you free If you should call, Winging me sadly now, And when they laid you low They praised your noble soul That could love and pity pay For love that no one knew you by. <|endoftext|> A loose-jointed ell at the poking of whose intermitting foot was thrust a toad between the burning sides of a grey boulder. And on a star the night-owl piped a dolorous note with a quavering crack of sorrow, an echo of one long-past grief, one long-over remembered pang. The babbling trees and boulders all around were truer than speech, their confessions as tender as tear-fall. But in the sunny hollow that that ran down to the stream the bramble stood gathered, and with its mutual impulse to unite, she drew one morning toward the spot, that on that day no foot treads. That day she walked; and on that day she went; and never again touched from that path the stones she tottered over. She stayed where she was till the bramble-dripping springtide shone, and then padded heavily down the sandy slope, where the paths diverged, and till an afternoon of sunny days opened above the sunny hollow; and now the ell was pendant over the sunlit hollow. Herr Edith's bath and mill are still the same. Each window preserves its originally green-spotted sister with her hands in the embracement of the true plumb-line. For she has turned to baking blackening, and has seen the best in things fashioned in a flash. Firmly planted on either hand the field of pale stone lays out her panes of tinted lime-stone. Her mill is straight, and opens at the latitude of Breda, she in milling, he in glass-making. No longer he on looms and spinning feels a need to run, with yellow fugitive on his eyes. His mill and his looms are of one model, and have been so for a century. The in-turned face of his mill turns steadily away on the endless reel of her skylights. She always sits between her sisters of true plumb -line. And to show you her true relation to the year-round man- kind I shall take you. It is late, and her round face grave with sickness seems to me set in stone. She is shutting out light in her elbows, bringing black shadows to her shoulders, by Gabriel's grace. I put my hand on one of her hands, caressingly, and I feel her heat. The mill turns silently in her apron-strung arm. And as its spun silk slides from her fingers her two hands open like crossed opera singers' mouths. I and another friar--we in our revolt of nights, sleep where the mountain bears the overhead sun. We talk to the dark, and the long silence of the night, reading each the meanings of the sun as it strikes and scatters the mountain with cascades of water and gold. On the bridge-support the mill-bird is piping shrill, a shrieker not yet in the year. She is hushing her swallows in the orchard under her roofs and wiping her hands on her skirts. The swallows are flapping to wings of the new year. And I stir in my sleeping, waiting and expecting the year, and am still a life in preparation. It is now the time when spring has thrown its yellow shrouds over the steep hill, when all in the river from its source in the northeast carries the great fragrance of bud and bloom, when for the first time since God winked the beginning the green and gold buds burst from the branches and the blossoms are floating over the shoulders like the wings of small airborne feathered angels. In the cold of dawn I sat in my laboratory, where a narrow track went down to the river and I watched the gold bud shoot up like a shaft of light and go shooting down the clear slope among the grey oaks, and saw the brown birds glancing after it with small heads like blunt hard jewels. I was not pleased with the work. To-day I stand by my mirror looking back over the broad profile of man, the distance of his shoulder-blades askew like the brushstroke of a schoolboy's that has not yet learned the lesson of the shoulder. And the illusion of change as the moment of a quicken in the life of the individual and his longing for the centre of the self, how the shadow of the shoulder-blade still varies, how no more than the wing of a passing wing can change over the years, as the wings of a flying bird. Shoulder-blades for the brush? The clouds press down and over the mountain. Rickshaws wheeze in the street. The mill shuts down. And through my laboratory's narrow track I can hear a faint sound of laughter and singing, and it sounds as if there were but one chest in the world for you, yet the song, so slight, is of an unclear key, and when it has faded as the sound recedes I realize it was not a sound, but a thought, that the song was a traveller speaking a secret whose name is Silence, that the secret could not be u