Heartbreak

Nobody took any notice of her as she stood on the causey kerb,
All eager to sell her honey and apples and bunches of garden herb;
And if she had offered to give her wares and herself with them too that day,
I doubt if a soul would have cared to take a bargain so choice away.

But chancing to trace her sunburnt grace that morning as I passed nigh,
I went and I said "Poor maidy dear! - and will none of the people buy?"
And so it began; and soon we knew what the end of it all must be,
And I found that though no others had bid, a prize had been won by me.

To Mr Lawrence

Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

    Though better men may fear that trumpet's warning,
    I meet you, lady, on the Judgment morning,
    With golden hope my spirit still adorning.

    Our God who made you all so fair and sweet
    Is three times gentle, and before his feet
    Rejoicing I shall say: - "The girl you gave
    Was my first Heaven, an angel bent to save.
    Oh, God, her maker, if my ingrate breath
    Is worth this rescue from the Second Death,
    Perhaps her dear proud eyes grow gentler too
    That scorned my graceless years and trophies few.
    Gone are those years, and gone ill-deeds that turned
    Her sacred beauty from my songs that burned.
    We now as comrades through the stars may take
    The rich and arduous quests I did forsake.
    Grant me a seraph-guide to ...

There's a light out there in the nearer east
In the dawn of Nineteen Nine;
There’s the old ghost light in the salty yeast
Where the black rocks meet the brine.
Here’s the same old strife and toil in vain,
Here’s the same old hope and doubt,
Here’s the same old useless care and pain,
And the sea is my way out,
My dear,
The sea is my way out.
’Tis a grey and a sad old sea for me,
With a growing grey head too.
Oh, the heads were brown and the eyes were bright
When the sea was white and blue.
It was round the world and home again,
We could turn and turn about,
And the sea means exile now in vain,
But the sea is my way out,
My dear,
The sea is my way out.

How death will steal, from life, to claim us all,
Happy to wrap us in barbary white,
By tapping ash tight fingers, the steel laws of fate,
Will deaden our faces, wrapping our feelings from earthly sight.

I see you, Maister Bawsy-brown,
Through yonder lattice creepin';
You come for cream and to gar me dream,
But you dinna find me sleepin'.
The moonbeam, that upon the floor
Wi' crickets ben a-jinkin',
Now steals away fra' her bonnie play--
Wi' a rosier blie, I'm thinkin'.

I saw you, Maister Bawsy-brown,
When the blue bells went a-ringin'
For the merrie fays o' the banks an' braes,
And I kenned your bonnie singin';
The gowans gave you honey sweets,
And the posies on the heather
Dript draughts o' dew for the faery crew
That danct and sang together.

But posie-bloom an' simmer-dew
And ither sweets o' faery
C'u'd na gae down wi' Bawsy-brown,
Sae nigh to Maggie's dairy!
My pantry shelves, sae clean and white,
Are set wi' cream and ...

    Many devils are in woods, in waters, in wilderness and in dark,
    pooly places ready to hurt. . . people, some are also in thick,
    black clouds. ? Martin Luther

    . . .Masaccio to the Florentine Renaissance but a naught-
    every man the same, St. Francis the same as a Jack the Ripper.
    their rosy surfaces filled.

    Like an Old Testament curse
    he is loosed upon the earth.
    Ecking out his pound of flesh
    delivering misery in sordidness, he parboils the land.

    A modern day Tantalus up to his throat
    in burning lies,
    his death is to live, in the contemporary sense,
    the thousand cuts-
    to bury the skies as a dread Caiaphas
    into the contradiction, the snares of his being.

    Measure for measur...

Dear Sherry, I'm sorry for your bloodsheded sore eye,
And the more I consider your case, still the more I
Regret it, for see how the pain on't has wore ye.
Besides, the good Whigs, who strangely adore ye,
In pity cry out, "He's a poor blinded Tory."
But listen to me, and I'll soon lay before ye
A sovereign cure well attested in Gory.
First wash it with ros, that makes dative rori,
Then send for three leeches, and let them all gore ye;
Then take a cordial dram to restore ye,
Then take Lady Judith, and walk a fine boree,
Then take a glass of good claret ex more,
Then stay as long as you can ab uxore;
And then if friend Dick[1] will but ope your back-door, he
Will quickly dispel the black clouds that hang o'er ye,
And make you so bright, th...

The little park planted in memory of a boy
who fell in the war begins
to resemble him
as he was twenty eight years ago.
Year by year they look more alike.
His old parents come almost daily
to sit on a bench
and look at him.

And every night the memory in the garden
hums like a little motor.
During the day you can't hear it.

Go, little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:
And bid him look
Into thy pages: it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through thee.

I.

It's a long, long way to the country, where
I wade and splash in the creek;
And a long, long way to the Ferncreek Fair,
The Fair where I was last week:
It's a long, long way to the end of the world,
Where the sun blows out his beams;
But the way is short, in your warm bed curled,
To the old, old Land of Dreams.

II.

It's a long, long way to go up stairs
When you're down in the yard below;
And a long, long way where no boy cares
To ever want to go:
It's a long, long way to the world's far end,
Where the stars sit down with God;
But the way is short, so I comprehend,
To the wonderful Land of Nod.

III.

It's a long, long way when you have to be dressed,
When you'd very much rather play;
And a long, long way,...

The trees
are forming hands
to cloak the sky
with pillow whispers,
until the soft equilibrium
behind laughing eyes
departs down the moon dark world.

The beast to the beast is calling,
And the soul bends down to wait;
Like the stealthy lord of the jungle,
The white man calls his mate.

The beast to the beast is calling,
They rush through the twilight sweet,
But the soul is a wary hunter,
He will not let them meet.

    As the days grow longer,
    The storms grow stronger.

And now 'tis time for Harvest. Hark! and lo,
With ringing sound of full melodious horn,
Over yon eastern hill-top all aglow, -
Her sickle gleaming in the golden morn,
Her arm upraised with sheaf of yellow corn, -
She comes elate with light, elastic pace;
Her neck and zone full-clustered vines adorn;
Her saffron locks, fruit-crowned; her luscious grace;
Her round and ripened form; her fair, benignant face.

And now the fields, when suns serenely greet,
A rich and mellow, wanton joy afford:
The russet pease vines, and the burnished wheat
And whiter barley, - hating to be stored,
Guarding with jealous spears their precious hoard, -
The tapering oat-stalk, dangling beads of gold:
In brilliant sea of beauty all outpoured,
With dazzling depth of splendor all un...

An angel was tired of heaven, as he lounged in the golden street;
His halo was tilted sideways, and his harp lay mute at his feet;
So the Master stooped in His pity, and gave him a pass to go,
For the space of a moon, to the earth-world, to mix with the men below.

He doffed his celestial garments, scarce waiting to lay them straight;
He bade goodbye to Peter, who stood by the golden gate;
The sexless singers of heaven chanted a fond farewell,
And the imps looked up as they pattered on the red-hot flags of hell.

Never was seen such an angel: eyes of a heavenly blue,
Features that shamed Apollo, hair of a golden hue;
The women simply adored him, his lips were like Cupid's bow;
But he never ventured to use them - and so they voted him slow.

Till at last there came ...

    I just think that dreams are best,
    Just to sit and fancy things;
    Give your gold no acid test,
    Try not how your silver rings;
    Fancy women pure and good,
    Fancy men upright and true:
    Fortressed in your solitude,
    Let Life be a dream to you.

    For I think that Thought is all;
    Truth's a minion of the mind;
    Love's ideal comes at call;
    As ye seek so shall ye find.
    But ye must not seek too far;
    Things are never what they seem:
    Let a star be just a star,
    And a woman - just a dream.

    O you Dreamers, proud and pure,
    You have gleaned the sweet of life!
    Golden truths that shall endure
    Over pain and doubt and strife.
    I would rather be a fool
    Living in my ...

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground,
His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil
Of villain-service, passing with the soil
To each new Master, like a steer or hound,
Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound;
But mark how gladly, through their own domains,
The Monks relax or break these iron chains;
While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, a sound
Echoed in Heaven, cries out, "Ye Chiefs, abate
These legalized oppressions! Man whose name
And nature God disdained not; Man whose soul
Christ died for, cannot forfeit his high claim
To live and move exempt from all control
Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate!"