Here , in my snug little fire-lit chamber,
— — — Sit I alone:
And, as I gaze in the coals, I remember
— — — Days long agone.
Saddening it is when the night has descended,
— — — Thus to sit here,
Pensively musing on episodes ended
— — — Many a year.

Still in my visions a golden-haired glory
— — — Flits to and fro;
She whom I loved — but 'tis just the old story:
— — — Dead, long ago.
'Tis but a wraith of love; yet I linger
— — — (Thus passion errs),
Foolishly kissing the ring on my finger —

Here in Kansas is a school
Made of square stones and windows,
Where Indian boys are taught to use a tool,
A printing-press, a book,
And Indian girls
To read, to dress, to cook,
And as I watch today
The orderly industrious classes,
Only their color and silence and the way
The hair lies flat and black on their heads proclaims them Sioux,
Comanche, Choctaw, Cherokee,
Creek, Chippewa, Paiute—and the red and blue
Of the girls' long sweaters and the purple and yellow,
And the tawny slant of the machine-made shirts …

Here I my selfe might likewise die,
And utterly forgotten lye,
But that eternall Poetrie
Repullulation gives me here
Unto the thirtieth thousand yeere,
When all now dead shall re-appeare.

(As he gazes from his office window at a ship clearing for the open sea)

Here I drone in this human hive,
Blow, ye sirens, blow!
And three times eight are twenty-five,
Blow, ye sirens, blow!
Blue Peter snaps and flutters wide,
The dripping hawser slaps her side,
Out she warps on the turning tide!
Blow, ye sirens, blow!

Three and four and a one make nine —
Roll, ye combers, roll!
The air is sharp with windswept brine,
Roll, ye combers, roll!
She's dropped the last low line of shore,
The furrowed seas stretch out before —

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
By the dusty roadside,
On the sunny hill-side,
Close by the noisy brook,
In every shady nook,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, smiling everywhere;
All around the open door,
Where sit the aged poor;
Here where the children play,
In the bright and merry May,
I come creeping, creeping everywhere.

Here I come creeping, creeping everywhere;
In the noisy city street
My pleasant face you 'll meet,
Cheering the sick at heart

———Thou hast nor youth nor age
——But as it were an after dinner sleep
——Dreaming of both.

Here I am, an old man in a dry month,
Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain.
I was neither at the hot gates
Nor fought in the warm rain
Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,
Bitten by flies, fought.
My house is a decayed house,
And the Jew squats on the window sill, the owner,
Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,
Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London.
The goat coughs at night in the field overhead;

Song.

Set by Mr. Curtes .

I.

Here, here, oh here Euridice ,
Here was she slaine;
Her soule 'still'd through a veine:
The Gods knew lesse
That time Divinitie,
Then ev'n, ev'n these
Of brutishnesse.

II.

Oh could you view the Melodie
Of ev'ry grace,
And Musick of her face,
You'd drop a teare,
Seeing more Harmonie
In her bright eye,
Then now you heare.

1

Here here are our enjoyments done,
And since the Love and grief we weare,
Forbids us either word, or teare,
And Art wants here expression,
See Nature furnish us with one.

2

The kind and mournfull Nimph which here
Inhabits, in her humble Cells,
No longer her own Sorrow tells.
Nor for it now concern'd appears,

Here first the day does break,
And for access does seek,
Repairing for supplies
To her new-opened eyes;
Then, with a gentle light
Gilding the shades of night,
Their curtains drawn, does come
To draw those of her room;
Both open, a small ray
Does spread abroad the day,
Which peeps into each nest
Where neighbouring birds do rest;
Who, spread upon their young,
Begin their morning song,
And from their little home
Nearer her window come,
While from low boughs they hop
And perch upon the top;
And so from bough to bough

Here costive many minutes did I strain,
Still squeezing, sweating, swearing, all in vain;
When lo! who should pop by but mother Masters,
At whose bewitching look soon stubborn arse stirs.
No more my wanton wit shall whip thy wife,
Dear, doting Dick, for O! she saved my life.