English

A GRAVE seems only six feet deep
And three feet wide,
Viewed with the calculating eye
Of one outside.

But when fast bound in the chill loam
For that strange sleep,
Who knows how wide its realm may be?
Its depths, how deep?

A grave physician, used to write for fees,
And spoil no paper, but with recipes,
Is now turned poet, rails against all wit,
Except that little found among the great;
As if he thought true wit and sense were tied
To men in place, like avarice, or pride.
But in their praise, so like a quack he talks,
You'd swear he wanted for his Christmas-box.
With mangled names old stories he pollutes,
And to the present time past actions suits;
Amazed we find, in ev'ry page he writes,
Members of Parliament with Arthur's knights.

1.

The grave House of Commons, by hook or by crook,
Resolved to root out both the pope and the duke;
But let 'em move, let 'em vote, let 'em pass what they will,
The bishops, the bishops will throw out the bill.

2.

There were Harbord and Winnington, Hampden and Birch
Did verily think to establish the church;
But now they have found it is past all their skill,
For the bishops, the bishops have thrown out the bill.

Grasshopper thrice-happy! who
Sipping the cool morning dew,
Queen-like chirpest all the day
Seated on some verdant spray;
Thine is all what ere earth brings,
Or the howrs with laden wings;
Thee, the Ploughman calls his Joy,
'Cause thou nothing dost destroy:
Thou by all art honour'd; All
Thee the Springs sweet Prophet call;
By the Muses thou admir'd,
By Apollo art inspir'd,
Agelesse, ever singing, good,
Without passion, flesh or blood;
Oh how near thy happy state
Comes the Gods to imitate!

Grasshopper Green is a comical chap;
He lives on the best of fare.
Bright little trousers, jacket, and cap,
These are his summer wear.
Out in the meadow he loves to go,
Playing away in the sun;
It's hopperty, skipperty, high and low,
Summer's the time for fun.

Grasshopper Green has a quaint little house;
It's under the hedge so gay.
Grandmother Spider, as still as a mouse,
Watches him over the way.
Gladly he's calling the children, I know,
Out in the beautiful sun;

As another sleeps
this quiet is not the calm

of home. Here I worry
slumber shields him

from his longing to be
done, to leave—

we were both amazed
how bodies went on

wanting for so long.
And now his breathing

fills me with terror,
I am afraid to cough

or disturb the restful
sloughing. When will it

be enough, just
passion exhausted,

when will I be free
to sleep, to listen to a

body breathe without
second-guessing it?

Go not to the hills of Erinn
When the night winds are about,
Put up your bar and shutter,
And so keep danger out.

For the good-folk whirl within it,
And they pull you by the hand,
And they push you on the shoulder,
Till you move to their command.

And lo! you have forgotten
What you have known of tears,
And you will not remember
That the world goes full of years.

A year there is a lifetime,
And a second but a day,
And an older world will meet you
Each morn you come away.

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread
When Colin's at the door?
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.

Go, lovely rose,
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired:
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare

From some sweet home, the morning train
Brings to the city,
Five days a week, in sun or rain,
Returning like a song's refrain,
A school girl pretty.

A wild flower's unaffected grace
Is dainty miss's;
Yet in her shy, expressive face
The touch of urban arts I trace, —
And artifices.

No one but she and Heaven knows
Of what she 's thinking:
It may be either books or beaux,
Fine scholarship or stylish clothes,
Per cents or prinking.

How happy must the household be,