Drip drip, rain on paulownia leaves;
softly sighing, wind in the mallow flowers.
Sad sad the early autumn thoughts
that come to me in my dark solitude.
How much more so when I part from an old friend —
no delight then in my musings.
Don't say I didn't see you off —
in heart I went as far as the Green Gate and beyond.
With friends, it's not how many you have
but only whether they share your heart.
One who shares my heart has gone away
and I learn how empty Ch'ang-an can be.

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But, alas, we never do.)

DRIFTING SANDS and a caravan, the desert's endless space .
Lustrous eyes 'neath Eastern skies, and a woman's veiled face.

Brigands bold on their Arab steeds, trampling all in their wake,
From out of the mystic Eastern lore one page from the book we take.
The sands of time move slowly in the hourglass of life,
But not on the desert's drifting sands, where bloodshed is and strife.
Out from the cruel, lashing sting of the world's merciless hate,
The soul of a man to the desert came to grapple its chance with Fate.

Oh, Most High, Almighty, Good Lord God, to Thee belong
praise, glory, honor and all blessing.
Praised be my Lord God, with all His creatures, and especially
our brother the Sun, who brings us the day and who brings
us the light: fair is he, and he shines with a very great
splendor.
O Lord, he signifies us to thee!
Praised be my Lord for our sister the Moon, and for the stars,
the which He has set clear and lovely in the heaven.
Praised be my Lord for our brother the wind, and for air and
clouds, calms and all weather, by which Thou upholdest

Dreary lay the long road, dreary lay the town,
Lights out and never a glint o' moon:
Weary lay the stragglers, half a thousand down,
Sad sighed the weary big Dragoon.
" Oh! if I'd a drum here to make them take the road again,
Oh! if I'd a fife to wheedle — come, boys, come!
You that mean to fight it out, wake and take your load again,
Fall in! Fall in! Follow the fife and drum!

" Hey, but here's a toy shop, here's a drum for me,
Penny whistles too to play the tune!
Half a thousand dead men soon shall hear and see

Dreary and brown the night comes down,
Gloomy, without a star.
On Palos town the night comes down;
The day departs with a stormy frown;
The sad sea moans afar.

A convent-gate is near; 't is late;
Ting-ling! the bell they ring.
They ring the bell, they ask for bread —
" Just for my child, " the father said.
Kind hands the bread will bring.

White was his hair, his mien was fair,
His look was calm and great.
The porter ran and called a friar;
The friar made haste and told the prior:
The prior came to the gate.

A dreamlike leap
By England's Sleep!
He didn't doze,
He did a douze .
His legs arose
In curlicues.

He shrugged, “O.K., I'll make a run,”
And then went heavenward (that's one),
And five times crossed, and uncrossed five,
And then returned to earth alive.

And on TV, no less. Voilà!
Sleep's the king of entrechat.

Nijinsky, may he rest in peace—
Would that he were above the ground!
Nijinsky settled for but dix
Movements in a single bound.

A joy forever. He will last.

A dream of mine flew over the mead
To the halls where my old Love reigns;
And it drew me on to follow its lead:
And I stood at her window-panes;

And I saw but a thing of flesh and bone
Speeding on to its cleft in the clay;
And my dream was scared, and expired on a moan,
And I whitely hastened away.

Draw near to the tables, ye that wear the cloaks;
Here ye have flesh, but it is not roast flesh,
Nor boiled in pots, nor cooked for feasting,
But my dear Bourke—och, och. after been slain.

You, young women, who are drinking wine there,
Let my sharp screeches pierce your heart.
If I am wise I may get whatever is my lot,
But you will never—och, och. och—get another brother!

O young woman, don't you pity my sorrow?
My mourning over the bier of my spouse?
A lock of his hair is within my purse,
And his offspring—och, och—hidden within me!

Drake, he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,