A high bare field, brown from the plough, and borne
Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky
Washing the ridge; a clamour of crows that fly
In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn
To yon their rocking roosts in pines wind-torn;
A line of grey snake-fence that zigzags by
A pond and cattle; from the homestead nigh
The long deep summonings of the supper horn.

Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush,
A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged beside
Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest-folk,

Higgledy-piggledy
John Simon Guggenheim,
Honored wherever the
Muses collect,

Save in the studies (like
Mine) which have suffered his
Unjustifiable,
Shocking neglect.

Higgledy-piggledy
Heliogabalus
Lurched through the Forum, his
Bottom a-wag,

Vainly pretending to
Gynaecological
Problems beneath his Im-

Higgledy-piggledy,
Benjamin Harrison,
Twenty-third President,
Was, and, as such,

Served between Clevelands, and
Save for this trivial
Idiosyncracy,
Didn't do much.

Hide not thy love and myne shal bee
Open and free;
No mask dooth well upon thy face.
Lett those that meane more hurt provide
Love of a guide,
Or of some close retyring place.
A harmles kisse would make us thinck
Love hath no Nectar else to drinck.

Our loves are not of age to will
Both good and ill,
For thine, alas, is but new borne,
And myne is yett to yonge to speake.
How can they breake
Or hold Loves civill Lawes in skorne?
Wee might go naked if some spie,
Apt to traduce us, stood not by.

Hidden lovers' woes
Thou wast wont to sing ere dawn arose:
Bitter parting after raptured meetings.
Whosoever love and lady's greeting
So received that he was torn
From her breast my fear of men,
Thou wouldst sing him counsel, when
Shone the star of morn.
Warder, sing it now no more, lay by thy bugle-horn!
He to whom is given
Not to be from love by morning riven —
Whom the watchers think not to beleaguer,
Hath no need to be alert and eager
To avert the peril rife
In the day: his rest is pure,
Not a warder makes secure

Hidden in wonder and snow, or sudden with summer,
This land stares at the sun in a huge silence
Endlessly repeating something we cannot hear.
Inarticulate, arctic,
Not written on by history, empty as paper,
It leans away from the world with songs in its lakes
Older than love, and lost in the miles.

This waiting is wanting.
It will choose its language
When it has chosen its technic,
A tongue to shape the vowels of its productivity.

A language of flesh and of roses.
Now there are pre-words,
Cabin syllables,

Hickory, dickory, dock,
The mouse ran up the clock;
The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down,
Hickory, dickory, dock.

Hickety pickety i sillickety
Pompalorum jig,
Every man who has no hair
Generally wears a wig,
One, two, three,
Out--goes--he.

Hey, mama
Tell me what have I
Tell me what have I
'tain't no lie

Hey mama
Tell me what have I done
It just seem like you're trying to
Beat your loving self on down

You gonna wake up one of these mornings
Now, sweet mama, now, I be
Baby, mama, now, I be
'tain't no lie
Tell-the-truth: you gonna wake up one of these mornings
Mama, baby, and I be gone
And you may not never
Mama, see me in your town no more

'Cause I'm a stranger in here, woman
I just blowed in your
I just blowed in your
mamlish town