English

Each hour has some glory all its own,
Some silver lull of streams unheard before,
Some glimpses rare of Nature's loveliness,
Some song with sweetness newer than of yore.

Each hour waiting spirits, Peace and Hope,
Stand near us if we wave them not away;
Each hour questions haunt us, bearing balm
Imprisoned in the potent yea or nay .

Each hour is a Sibyl, weird and strange,
Of eye prophetic and of backward glance;
Each is a restless bird checked in its flight,
A whisper that will nevermore entrance.

Each hath his drug for sorrow
—(Or else the pain would slay!)
For one, it is “To-morrow”;
—For one, 'tis “Yesterday.”

“And hast thou lost, my Brother?”
—“Yea, but in dreams I find.”
“And I” (so saith another)
—“Leave buried dead behind!”

For each, when gyves are fretting,
—A different balm must be.
Some find it in forgetting,
—And some in memory.

Dusk Above the
water hang the loud flies Here O so gray then What A pale signal will appear When Soon before its shadow fadesWhere Here in this pool of opened eyeIn us No Upon us As at the very edges of where we take shape in the dark air this object bares its image awakening ripples of recognition that will brush darkness up into light

I

Dunna thee tell me it's his'n, mother,
Dunna thee, dunna thee!
— Oh ay, he'll come an' tell thee his-sen,
Wench, wunna he?

Tha doesna mean ter say ter me, mother,
He's gone wi' that —
— My gel, owt'll do for a man i' th' dark;
Tha's got it flat!

But 'er's old, mother, 'er's twenty year
Older nor him —

Dull as I was, to think that a Court Fly,
Presum'd so neer her Eye;
When 'twas th'industrious Bee
Mistook her glorious Face for Paradise,
To summe up all his Chymistry of Spice;
With a brave pride and honour led,
Neer both her Suns he makes his bed;
And though a Spark struggles to rise as red:
Then AEmulates the gay
Daughter of Day,
Acts the Romantick Phoenix fate:
When now with all his Sweeets lay'd out in state,
Lucasta scatters but one Heat,
And all the Aromatick pills do sweat,

The dule's i' this bonnet o' mine;
— My ribbins'll never be reet;
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine,
— For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet;
He met me i' th' lone t'other day, —
— Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well, —
An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May; —
— Bi th' mass, iv he'll let me, aw will!

When he took my two honds into his,
— Good Lord, heaw they trembled between;
An' aw durstn't look up in his face,
— Becose on him seein' my e'ndash;
My cheek went as red as a rose; —

The Duke of Gordon has three daughters,
Elizabeth, Margaret, and Jean;
They would not stay in bonny Castle Gordon,
But they would go to bonny Aberdeen.

They had not been in Aberdeen
A twelvemonth and a day
Till Lady Jean fell in love with Captain Ogilvie,
And away with him she would gae.

Word came to the Duke of Gordon,
In the chamber where he lay,
Lady Jean has fell in love with Captain Ogilvie,
And away with him she would gae.

" Go saddle me the black horse,
And you 'll ride on the grey,

D UBLIN made me and no little town
With the country closing in on its streets
The cattle walking proudly on its pavements
The jobbers the gombeenmen and the cheats

Devouring the fair day between them
A public-house to half a hundred men
And the teacher, the solicitor and the bank-clerk
In the hotel bar drinking for ten.

Dublin made me, not the secret poteen still
The raw and hungry hills of the West
The lean road flung over profitless bog
Where only a snipe could nest.

Drop, drop, slow tears,
and bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from Heaven
the news and Prince of Peace.
Cease not, wet eyes,
his mercies to entreat:
To cry for vengeance
sin doth never cease;
In your deep floods
drown all my faults and fears,
Nor let His eye
see sin, but through my tears.

Drop an unkind word or careless —
Just a flash and it is gone,
But a half a hundred ripples
Go a-circling on and on;
They keep spreading, spreading, spreading
From the center as they go,
And there is no way to stop them,
Once you've started them to flow.

Drop an unkind word or careless —
In a minute you forget,
But it started waves to flowing
And its ripples circle yet:
And perhaps in some sad pilgrim
A great wave of tears you've stirred,
And disturbed a life that's happy