English

Every October millions of little fish come along the shore,
Coasting this granite edge of the continent
On their lawful occasions: but what a festival for the sea-fowl.
What a witches' sabbath of wings
Hides the dark water. The heavy pelicans shout “Haw!” like Job's friend's warhorse
And dive from the high air, the cormorants
Slip their long black bodies under the water and hunt like wolves
Through the green half-light. Screaming, the gulls watch,
Wild with envy and malice, cursing and snatching. What hysterical greed!

Every night I sleep
And every night I dream
That I'm strolling with my sheep
By the old stream.

Every morn I wake,
And every morn I stand
And watch the shrapnel break
On the smashed land.

Some night I'll fall asleep
And will not wake at dawn.
I'll lie and feed my sheep
On a green Lawn.

Every morning I get up
Beautiful as the Goddess
Of love in Enchanted Mountain.
Every night I go to bed
Seductive as Yang Kuei-fei,
The imperial concubine.
My slender waist and thighs
Are exhausted and weak
From a night of cloud dancing.
But my eyes are still lewd,
And my cheeks are flushed.
My old wet nurse combs
My cloud-like hair.
My lover, fragrant as incense,
Adjusts my jade hairpins, and
Draws on my silk stockings
Over my feet and legs
Perfumed with orchids;

Every morning at
six o'clock I go to my work,
Over coat buttoned up 'round my neck no job would I shirk,
Winter wind blows 'round my head cuting up my face, I
tell you what I'd like to have my dear old father's place.
A man named Work moved
into town, and father heard the news, With
Work, so near my father started shaking in his shoes, When
Mister Work walked by my house he saw with great surprise, My
father sitting in his chair with blinders on his eyes.
At beating carpets
father said he simply was immense, We

Every evening before the sea departs from Beirut
he leaves a desire with her,
an apprehension. Like any little boy,
the sea dreams that what besieges
Beirut and bursts in her heart is
nothing but a fleeting passion;
nothing but a nightmare born
in her bed and gone scurrying
through her streets and hotels,
pausing at the harbor and
melting in every atom of the air.

Every evening the sea sends her his good wishes
and letters;
when roused by the sound of guns
and roaring tanks, he

Gay, gay, gay, gay,
Think on dredful Domesday.

Every day thou might lere
To helpe thyself whil thou art here:
Whan thou art ded and leid on bere
Christ help thy soule, for thou ne may.

Think, man, on thy wittes five,
Do sum good whil thou art on live:
Go to Cherche and do thee shrive,
And bring thy soule in good array.

Think, man, on thy sinnes sevene,
Think how merye it is in Hevene:
Prey to God, with milde stevene,
He be thine help on Domesday.

Loke that thou non thing stere,

Every day is a fresh beginning,
Listen my soul to the glad refrain.
And, spite of old sorrows
And older sinning,
Troubles forecasted
And possible pain,
Take heart with the day and begin again.

Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!
'Tis to commend her, but to name.
Courtship which, living, she declined,
When dead, to offer were unkind:
Nor can the truest wit, or friend,
Without detracting, her commend.

To say--she lived a virgin chaste
In this age loose and all unlaced;
Nor was, when vice is so allowed,
Of virtue or ashamed or proud;
That her soul was on Heaven so bent,
No minute but it came and went;
That, ready her last debt to pay,
She summ'd her life up every day;

Namoured architect of airy rhyme,
Build as thou wilt; heed not what each man says:
Good souls, but innocent of dreamers' ways,
Will come, and marvel why thou wastest time;
Others, beholding how thy turrets climb
'Twixt theirs and heaven, will hate thee all thy days;
But most beware of those who come to praise.
O Wondersmith, O worker in sublime
And heaven-sent dreams, let art be all in all;
Build as thou wilt, unspoiled by praise or blame,
Build as thou wilt, and as thy light is given:
Then, if at last the airy structure fall,

Dost see how unregarded now
That piece of beauty passes?
There was a time when I did vow
To that alone;
But mark the fate of faces:
That red-and-white works now no more on me
Than if it could not charm or I not see.

And yet the face continues good,
And I have still desires,
Am still the selfsame flesh and blood,
As apt to melt
And suffer from those fires;
Oh, some kind power unriddle where it lies,
Whether my heart be faulty, or her eyes.

She every day her man doth kill,
And I as often die;