At night it is not strange that thou art dead;
I give thee to the stars, the moonlight snow;
But ah, when desolate I lift my head,
And thou art gone at early morning, No!

“So say the foolish!” Say the foolish so, Love?
“Flower she is, my rose” or else, “My very swan is she”
Or perhaps, “Yon maid-moon, blessing earth below, Love,
That art thou!” to them, belike: no such vain words from me.

“Hush, rose, blush! no balm like breath,” I chide it:
“Bend thy neck its best, swan, hers the whiter curve!”
Be the moon the moon: my Love I place beside it:
What is she? Her human self, no lower word will serve.

"The North has got him." - Yukonism.


I tried to refine that neighbor of mine, honest to God, I did.
I grieved for his fate, and early and late I watched over him like a kid.
I gave him excuse, I bore his abuse in every way that I could;
I swore to prevail; I camped on his trail;
I plotted and planned for his good.
By day and by night I strove in men's sight to gather him into the fold,
With precept and prayer, with hope and despair, in hunger and hardship and cold.
I followed him into Gehennas of sin, I sat where the sirens sit;
In the shade of the Pole, for the sake of his soul,
I strove with the powers of the Pit.
I shadowed him down to the scrofulous town;
I dragged him from dissolute brawls;
But I killed the galoot when he started to shoot electricity ...

A day without rain is like
a day without sunshine

Grown tired of mourning for my sins,
And brooding over merits,
The other night with bothered brow
I went amongst the spirits;
And I met one that I knew well:
‘Oh, Scotty’s Ghost, is that you?
‘And did you see the fearsome crowd
‘At Robbie Burns’s statue?
‘They hurried up in hansom cabs,
‘Tall-hatted and frock-coated;
‘They trained it in from all the towns,
‘The weird and hairy-throated;
‘They spoke in some outlandish tongue,
‘They cut some comic capers,
‘And ilka man was wild to get
‘His name in all the papers.

‘They showed no gleam of intellect,
‘Those frauds who rushed before us;
‘They knew one verse of “Auld Lang Syne, ”
‘The first one and the chorus:
‘They clacked the clack o’ Scotlan’s Bard,
‘They glibly talked of “Rabby;”

Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they played at Bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.

Soft as a cloud is yon blue Ridge, the Mere
Seems firm as solid crystal, breathless, clear,
And motionless; and, to the gazer's eye,
Deeper than ocean, in the immensity
Of its vague mountains and unreal sky!
But, from the process in that still retreat,
Turn to minuter changes at our feet;
Observe how dewy Twilight has withdrawn
The crowd of daisies from the shaven lawn,
And has restored to view its tender green,
That, while the sun rode high, was lost beneath their dazzling sheen.

An emblem this of what the sober Hour
Can do for minds disposed to feel its power!
Thus oft, when we in vain have wished away
The petty pleasures of the garish day,
Meek eve shuts up the whole usurping host
(Unbashful dwarfs each glittering at his post)
And leaves the dise...

I cannot pipe as I was wont to do,
Broke is my reed, hoarse is my singing, too;
My wearied oat I'll hang upon the tree,
And give it to the sylvan deity.

Tune - "Lass o' Livistone."

I.

    Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
        On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
    My plaidie to the angry airt,
        I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
    Or did misfortune's bitter storms
        Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
    Thy bield should be my bosom,
        To share it a', to share it a'.

II.

    Or were I in the wildest waste,
        Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
    The desert were a paradise,
        If thou wert there, if thou wert there:
    Or were I monarch o' the globe,
        Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
    The brightest jewel in my crown
        Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

My books are on their shelves again
And clouds lie low with mist and rain.
Afar the Arno murmurs low
The tale of fields of melting snow.
List to the bells of times agone
The while I wait me for the dawn.

Beneath great Giotto's Campanile
The gray ghosts throng; their whispers steal
From poets' bosoms long since dust;
They ask me now to go. I trust
Their fleeter footsteps where again
They come at night and live as men.

The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates;
The big drops hang on purple dates;
And yet beneath the ilex-shades--
Dear trysting-place for boys and maids--
There comes a form from days of old,
With Beatrice's hair of gold.

The breath of lands or lilied streams
Floats through the fabric of my dreams;
And yonder from the...

You found my life, a poor lame bird
    That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
    To give it voice and wing.

Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
    I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
    It might have sung and flown.

I have come the selfsame path
To the selfsame door,
Years have left the roses there
Burning as before

While I watch them in the wind
Quick the hot tears start,
Strange so frail a flame outlasts
Fire in the heart.

Brown was my friend, and faithful--but so fat!
    He came to see me in the twilight dim;
    I rose politely and invited him
To take a seat--how heavily he sat!

He sat upon the sofa, where my hat,
    My wanton Zephyr, rested on its rim;
    Its build, unlike my friend's, was rather slim,
And when he rose, I saw it, crushed and flat.

O Hat, that wast the apple of my eye,
    Thy brim is bent, six cracks are in thy crown,
            And I shall never wear thee any more;
Upon a shelf thy loved remains shall lie,
    And with the years the dust will settle down
            On thee, the neatest hat I ever wore!

    Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives,
        In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd,
    Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives,
        Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.

    So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast,
        Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
    But peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
        Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song.

    Or pity's notes in luxury of tears,
        As modest want the tale of woe reveals;
    While conscious virtue all the strain endears,
        And heaven-born piety her sanction seals.

Through all the night
Thou dost me fright,
And hold'st mine eyes from sleeping;
And day by day,
My cup can say
My wine is mix'd with weeping.

Thou dost my bread
With ashes knead
Each evening and each morrow;
Mine eye and ear
Do see and hear
The coming in of sorrow.

Thy scourge of steel,
Ah me! I feel
Upon me beating ever:
While my sick heart
With dismal smart
Is disacquainted never.

Long, long, I'm sure,
This can't endure,
But in short time 'twill please Thee,
My gentle God,
To burn the rod,
Or strike so as to ease me.

Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.

With specimens of song,
As if for you to choose,
Discretion in the interval,
With gay delays he goes
To some superior tree
Without a single leaf,
And shouts for joy to nobody
But his seraphic self!

In the wet dusk silver-sweet,
Down the violet scented ways,
As I moved with quiet feet
I was met by mighty days.

On the hedge the hanging dew
Glassed the eve and stars and skies;
While I gazed a madness grew
Into thundered battle cries.

Where the hawthorn glimmered white,
Flashed the spear and fell the stroke--
Ah, what faces pale and bright
Where the dazzling battle broke!

There a hero-hearted queen
With young beauty lit the van.
Gone! the darkness flowed between
All the ancient wars of man.

While I paced the valley's gloom
Where the rabbits pattered near,
Shone a temple and a tomb
With the legend carven clear:

'Time put by a myriad fates
That her day might dawn in glory.
Death made wide a million ga...

What though I dreamed of mountain heights,
    Of peaks, the barriers of the world,
Around whose tops the Northern Lights
    And tempests are unfurled.

Mine are the footpaths leading through
    Life's lowly fields and woods, - with rifts,
Above, of heaven's Eden blue, -
    By which the violet lifts

Its shy appeal; and holding up
    Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine,
Along the hillside, cup on cup,
    Blooms bright the celandine.

Where soft upon each flowering stock
    The butterfly spreads damask wings;
And under grassy loam and rock
    The cottage cricket sings.

Where overhead eve blooms with fire,
    In which the new moon bends her bow,
And, arrow-like, one white star by her
 ...