English

1
Farewel dear babe, my hearts too much content,
Farewel sweet babe, the pleasure of mine eye,
Farewel fair flower that for a space was lent,
Then ta'en away unto Eternity.
Blest babe why should I once bewail thy fate,
Or sigh the dayes so soon were terminate;
Sith thou art setled in an Everlasting state.
2

By nature Trees do rot when they are grown.
And Plumbs and Apples throughly ripe do fall,
And Corn and grass are in their season mown,

And time brings down what is both strong and tall.

Farewell, Bristolia's dingy piles of brick,
Lovers of mammon, worshippers of trick!
Ye spurned the boy who gave you antique lays,
And paid for learning with your empty praise.
Farewell, ye guzzling aldermanic fools,
By nature fitted for corruption's tools!
I go to where celestial anthems swell;
But you, when you depart, will sink to hell.
Farewell, my mother!—cease, my anguished soul,
Nor let distraction's billows o'er me roll!
Have mercy, Heaven! when here I cease to live,
And this last act of wretchedness forgive.

Far up the lonely mountain-side
My wandering footsteps led;
The moss lay thick beneath my feet,
The pine sighed overhead.
The trace of a dismantled fort
Lay in the forest nave,
And in the shadow near my path
I saw a soldier's grave.

The bramble wrestled with the weed
Upon the lowly mound; —
The simple head-board, rudely writ,
Had rotted to the ground;
I raised it with a reverent hand,
From dust its words to clear,
But time had blotted all but these —
" A Georgia Volunteer! "

Far out in the hush of the mountain land
There lies the grave of a little child;
Unwept by heart and untended by hand—
Alone with the grass and the aspen wild.

It was years ago—so the story goes—
When the “Fifties” rang with the tales of gold,
That they laid her there, 'mid the falling snows,
To sleep alone in the damp and cold.

What mother sobbed with the pangs of woe,
What father grieved as he urged his teams,
Tradition tells not, and we only know
That the child is there in a land of dreams.

Far-off a young State rises, full of might:
I paint its brave escutcheon. Near at hand
See the log cabin in the rough clearing stand;
A woman by its door, with steadfast sight,
Trustful, looks Westward, where, uplifted bright,
Some city's Apparition, weird and grand,
In dazzling quiet fronts the lonely land,
With vast and marvelous structures wrought of light,
Motionless on the burning cloud afar: —
The haunting vision of a time to be,
After the heroic age is ended here,
Built on the boundless, still horizon's bar

Far in the land of sunny South,
Where brightly shines the sun,
Where foliage green, is ever seen,
Like to a northern spring begun,
A lithe and agile, ebon, youth,
With gladsome heart, in love and truth,
Is ling'ring with his plighted one.

One arm about her waist is twined —
One little hand he holds;
Her head at rest, upon his breast,
Is like a lambkin in the fold —
When fierce, the mountain wolf of gray,
Howls in the uplands, far away,
Of hunger, wretchedness, and cold.

Storm, park, and restless,
one preservation on the Hudson docks for
homosexuals hand in hand,
cornering the bar with leathered glances—
we are the boys who love.

Where are my lovers?
Penis and limp flesh,
city doves and pale sheets,
the shedding of denim and cotton briefs

The Village Cigar store at two a.m.
Light drooling on the street
and the alabaster adonis alone.

How warm is your sperm
like milk and beer and morning
beside your hardness.

Heaven sucks the angels

1. Far from our friends and country dear
2. Our foes insulting mock our grief,
In hostile lands we moan; No tender hand
And sport with our complaints; No mercy prompts
to wipe the tear Which flows with every groan!
to give relief, Though languid misery faints.

3. In retrospective scenes employed
We think on former days;
When peaceful sabbaths we enjoyed
And all our work was praise.

4. But now, of liberty deprived
In solitude confined;
In vain we seek the word of life
To lead the starving mind.

— Far beyond the sky-line, where the steamers go,
— There's a cool, green country, there's the land I know;
— Where the gray mist rises from the hidden pool,
— And the dew falls softly on the meadows cool.
When the exile's death has claimed me it is there my soul shall fly,
To the pleasant English country, when my time has come to die;
Where the west wind on the uplands echoes back the sea-bird's cry —
Oh! it's there my soul will hasten though it's here my bones must lie.

— From the many temples, tinkling bells ring clear,

Wonderful was the long secret night you gave me, my Lover,
Palm to palm, breast to breast in the gloom. The faint red lamp,
Flushing with magical shadows the common-place room of the inn,
With its dull impersonal furniture, kindled a mystic flame
In the heart of the swinging mirror, the glass that has seen
Faces innumerous & vague of the endless travelling automata,
Whirled down the ways of the world like dust-eddies swept through a street,
Faces indifferent or weary, frowns of impatience or pain,