Curly locks, Curly locks,
Wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes
Nor yet feed the swine;
But sit on a cushion
And sew a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries,
Sugar and cream.

Curled in his black-ringed tail drowsed he,
Gray Raccoon of the hollow tree;
But the North Wind called and he woke too soon;
Out from his hole came Gray Raccoon.

Sharp-faced, keen-eared, shrewdly wise,
Mischief bright in his dark brown eyes,
Over the frost-ridged path he crept
To the bowldered cave where the Black Bear slept.

Warm in his fur and his donjon keep,
Moween the Black Bear slept his sleep.
Led by the light of the wintry moon,
Into the den came Gray Raccoon.

There he came and there he saw;

A curious knot God made in Paradise,
And drew it out inamled neatly fresh.
It was the true-love knot, more sweet than spice,
And set with all the flowers of grace's dress.
It's weddens knot, that ne'er can be unti'd:
No Alexander's sword can it divide.

The slips here planted, gay and glorious grow:
Unless an hellish breath do singe their plumes.
Here primrose, cowslips, roses, lillies blow,
With violets and pinks that void perfumes:
Whose beauteous leaves o'erlaid with honey dew,
And chanting birds chirp out sweet music true.

THE CURATE thinks you have no soul;
I know thaThe has none. But you,
Dear friend, whose solemn self-control,
In our foursquare familiar pew,
Was pattern to my youth — whose bark
Called me in summer dawns to rove —
Have you gone down into the dark
Where none is welcome — none may love?
I will not think those good brown eyes
Have spent their life of truth so soon;
But in some canine paradise
Your wraith, I know, rebukes the moon,
And quarters every plain and hill,
Seeking his master . . . As for me,

Cupid once upon a bed
Of roses laid his weary head;
Luckless urchin, not to see
Within the leaves a slumbering bee.
The bee awaked — with anger wild
The bee awaked, and stung the child.
Loud and piteous are his cries;
To Venus quick he runs, he flies;
" Oh Mother! I am wounded through —
I die with pain — in sooth I do!
Stung by some little angry thing,
Some serpent on a tiny wing —
A bee it was — for once, I know,
I heard a rustic call it so. "
Thus he spoke, and she the while
Heard him with a soothing smile;

Cupid, in a bed of roses
Sleeping, chancid to be stung
Of a bee that lay among
The flowers where he himself reposes;
And thus to his mother weeping
Told that he this wound did take
Of a little wingid snake,
As he lay securely sleeping.
Cytherea smiling said
That " if so great sorrow spring
From a silly bee's weak sting
As should make thee thus dismayed,
What anguish feel they, think'st thou, and what pain,
Whom thy empoisoned arrows cause complain?"

The bloudy trunck of him who did possesse
Above the rest a haplesse happy state,
This little Stone doth Seale, but not depresse,
And scarce can stop the rowling of his fate.

Brasse Tombes which justice hath deny'd t'his fault,
The common pity to his vertues payes,
Adorning an Imaginary vault,
Which from our minds time strives in vaine to raze.

Ten yeares the world upon him falsly smil'd,
Sheathing in fawning lookes the deadly knife
Long aymed at his head; That so beguild
It more securely might bereave his Life.

(To Prince Bran in his own house the Queen of the Islands of the Ever Living came, bearing a blossoming branch, and she chanted this lay to him.)
Crystal and silver
The branch that to you I show:
'Tis from a wondrous isle —
Distant seas close it;
Glistening around it
The sea-horses hie them:
Emne of many shapes,
Of many shades, the island.

They who that island near
Mark a stone standing:
From it a music comes,
Unheard-of, enchanting.
They who that music hear
In clear tones answer —
Hosts sing in choruses

Cryin', who's that yonder
comin' down the road
comin'
down the road
Mmmmm, who's that yonder
comin' down the road
Well it
look like Maggie, baby,
But she walk too slow

Now, sun goin' shine
my back door some day
my back
door some day
Mmmmm, sun goin' shine in
my back door some day
And the
wind gon' change, gon'
Blow my blues away

Now, see see rider
see what you done done
see what
you done done
Mmmmm, see see rider
see what you done done
You done
made me love you, now you

" Cogitavi vias meas"

A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire
Made me gaze where it seemed to be:
'Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me
On how I had walked when my sun was higher —
My heart in its arrogancy.

" You held not to whatsoever was true,"
Said my own voice talking to me:
" Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;
Kept not things lovely and pure in view,"
Said my own voice talking to me.

" You slighted her that endureth all,"
Said my own voice talking to me;