English

Hear me as if thy eares had palate, Jack,
I sing the praise of Sack:
Hence with Apollo and the muses nine,
Give me a cup of wine.
Sack will the soule of Poetry infuse,
Be that my theam and muse.
But Bacchus I adore no Deity,
Nor Bacchus neither unlesse Sack he be.

Let us by reverend degrees draw near,
I feel the Goddesse here.
Loe I, dread Sack, an humble Priest of thine
First kisse this cup thy shrine.
That with more hallowed lips and inlarg'd soule
I may receive the whole:

Health enough to make work a pleasure; wealth enough to support your needs;
Strength enough to battle with difficulties and overcome them;
Grace enough to confess your sins and forsake them;
Patience enough to toil until some good is accomplished;
Charity that shall see some good in your neighbor;
Cheerfulness that shall make others glad;
Love that shall move you to be useful and helpful;
Faith that shall make real the things of God;
And hope that shall remove all anxious fears concerning the future.

The head is stately, calm, and wise,
And bears a princely part;
And down below in secret lies
The warm, impulsive heart.

The lordly head that sits above,
The heart that beats below,
Their several office plainly prove,
Their true relation show.

The head, erect, serene, and cool,
Endowed with Reason's art,
Was set aloft to guide and rule
The throbbing, wayward heart.

And from the head, as from the higher,
Comes every glorious thought;
And in the heart's transforming fire

He wrought at one great work for years;
The world passed by with lofty look:
Sometimes his eyes were dashed with tears;
Sometimes his lips with laughter shook.

His wife and child went clothed in rags,
And in a windy garret starved:
He trod his measures on the flags,
And high on heaven his music carved.

Wistful he grew but never feared;
For always on the midnight skies
His rich orchestral score appeared
In stars and zones and galaxies.

He thought to copy down his score:

He whose active thoughts disdain
To be Captive to one foe,
And would break his single chain
Or else more would undergo;
Let him learn the art of me,
By new bondage to be free.

What tyrannick Mistresse dare
To one beauty love confine,
Who unbounded as the aire
All may court but none decline?
Why should we the Heart deny
As many objects as the Eye?

Wheresoe're I turn or move

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow:
And ye say, " Abdallah's dead! "
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this:
" I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine — it is not I. "

Sweet friends! what the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,

He who could win the girl I love
would win a grove of light,
with her silken, starry hair
in golden columns from her head,
dragon fire lighting up a door,
three chains like the Milky Way.
She sets alight in one bush
a roof of hair like a bonfire.
Yellow broom or a great birch tree
is this gold-topped girl of Maelor.
A host coloured like angels,
her armour's many-branched,
a peacock-feather pennon,
a tall bush like the golden door,
all this lively looking hair
virtued like the sun, fetter of girls.

He whistled soft whistlings I knew were for me,
Teasing, endearing.
Won't you look? was what they said,
But I did not turn my head.
(Only a little I turned my hearing.)

My feet took me by;
Straight and evenly they went:
As if they had not dreamed what he meant:
As if such a curiosity
Never was known since the world began
As woman wanting man!

My heart led me past and took me away;
And yet it was my heart that wanted to stay.

Did I ever imagine
I would make this pass again
in my old age?
Such is life!
Sayononaka Mountain.

He watched the spring come like a gentle maid,
Suffused with blushes at her lover's call,
Her radiant figure swaying, slim and tall,
Her white arms decked with carven gold and jade;
And in her steps new grass with tender blade
Sprang up, and flowers whose faces sweet and small
Wove patterns like a rare old Persian shawl,
And carpets for the wanton summer laid,
Where she with dancing feet and passionate
Warm breasts lured autumn, purple robed and red,
Who brought blue swallows, yellow butterflies,