His face was the oddest that ever was seen,
His mouth stood across 'twixt his nose and his chin;
Whenever he spoke it was then with his voice,
And in talking he always made some sort of noise.

Derry down.

He'd an arm on each side to work when he pleased,
But he never worked hard when he lived at his ease;
Two legs he had got to make him complete,
And what is more odd, at each end were his feet.

His legs, as folks say, he could move at his will,
And when he was walking he never stood still.

His eyes grow hot, his words grow wild;
He swears to break the mold and leave her.
She smiles at him as at a child
That's touched with fever.

She smooths his ruffled wings, she leans
To comfort, pamper and restore him.
And when he sulks or scowls she preens
His feathers for him.

He hungers after stale regrets,
Nourished by what she offers gaily;
And all he thinks he never gets
She feeds him daily.

He lusts for freedom, cries how long
Must he be bound by what controlled him;
Yet he is glad the chains are strong

His broad-brimmed hat pushed back with careless air,
The proud vaquero sits his steed as free
As winds that toss his black abundant hair.
No rover ever swept a lawless sea
With such a haught and heedless air as he
Who scorns the path, and bounds with swift disdain
Away, a peon born, yet born to be
A splendid king; behold him ride and reign.
How brave he takes his herds in branding days,
On timbered hills that belt about the plain;
He climbs, he wheels, he shouts through winding ways
Of hiding ferns and hanging fir; the rein

His body lies upon the shore,
Afar from his beloved land,
And over him shine tropic suns;
No more he thrills at sound of guns,
No longer, cutlass in his hand,
Cries, " Follow me! " and goes before.

Above him droop the languid trees,
Athirst and fainting with the noon;
Around him drowsy lizards crawl.
No more he hears the boatswain's call,
Nor sees the waters rock the moon,
Nor smells the keen and salty breeze.

Vain roars old Ocean in his ear,
Calling to him from mighty deeps,

His body doubled
under the pack
that sprawls untidily
on his old back
the cold wet deadbeat
plods up the track

The cook peers out:
" oh curse that old lag
here again
with his clumsy swag
made of a dirty old
turnip-bag"

" Bring him in cook
from the grey level sleet
put silk on his body
slippers on his feet,
give him fire
and bread and meat

Let the fruit be plucked
and the cake be iced,
the bed be snug
and the wine be spiced
in the old cove's nightcap:
for this is Christ."

His blood is on us
I do not exonerate the vipers of the oil wells
or pass light sentence on their petrodollars
for I pursue a black rose growing in my heart
while the evidence overwhelms me.

" Izziddin came laughing toward me
whipping out that old notebook of his
and proceeded to list his would-be killers.
He did not speak about his strange uncertain nights:
" Each day under a different roof!
Behind you creep plagues, fools and the cops! "
He laughs, " It's Paris, you know. "
Whispers, " This is half the price we pay. "

His bed is like his death.
The prince lies down and
the princess:
two shadows abandoned on
an island.

In my island the sun does not rise, nor set
shadows do not grow shorter
nor longer
nor change.
People are not born on this island,
the shadow
sees only its dubious reflection
in the mirror,
never its conscience!

Island-world grows bigger
time grows bigger
the two shadows move.
Under the weight of night and day
of the noonday sun
Death is born to man
and the cursed and angry devil

Hinx, minx, the old witch winks,
The fat begins to fry,
Nobody at home but Jumping Joan,
Father, Mother, and I.
Stick, stock, stone dead,
Blind man can't see;
Every knave will have a slave,
You or I must be he.

AH INDOO died; Ahappy thing to do,
When fifty years united to a shrew.
Released, he hopefully for entrance cries
Before the gates of Brahma's paradise.
" Hast been through purgatory? " Brahma said.
" I have been married! " and he hung his head.
" Come in! come in! and welcome, too, my son!
Marriage and purgatory are as one. "
In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door,
And knew the peace he ne'er had known before.

He scarce had entered in the gardens fair,
Another Hindoo asked admission there.

The hills are white, but not with snow:
— They are as pale in summer time,
For herb or grass may never grow
— Upon their slopes of lime.

Within the circle of the hills
— A ring, all flowering in a round,
An orchard-ring of almond fills
— The plot of stony ground.

More fair than happier trees, I think,
— Grown in well-watered pasture land
These parched and stunted branches, pink
— Above the stones and sand.

O white, austere, ideal place,
— Where very few will care to come,
Where spring hath lost the waving grace