A clock stopped — not the mantel's;
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing
That just now dangled still.

An awe came on the trinket!
The figures hunched with pain,
Then quivered out of decimals
Into degreeless noon.

It will not stir for doctors,
This pendulum of snow;
The shopman importunes it,
While cool, concernless No

Nods from the gilded pointers,
Nods from the seconds slim,
Decades of arrogance between
The dial life and him.

FOR A CELEBRATION IN KENTUCKY OF THE LANDING OF THE
PILGRIMS

Clime of the brave! the high heart's home,
 Laved by the wild and stormy sea!
Thy children, in this far-off land,
 Devote to-day their hearts to thee;
Our thoughts, despite of space and time,
To-day are in our native clime,
Where passed our sinless years, and where
Our infant heads first bowed in prayer.

Stern land! we love thy woods and rocks,
 Thy rushing streams, thy winter glooms,
And Memory, like a pilgrim gray,
 Kneels at thy temples and thy tombs:

Cliffs,
Cliffs,
And a twisted sea
Beating under a freezing moon.
Why should I,
Sitting peaceful and warm,
Cut my heart on so sharp a tune?

Liquid lapping of seething fire
Eating the heart of an old beech-tree.
Crack of icicles under the eaves,
Dog-wind whining eerily.

The oaks are red, and the asters flame,
And the sun is warm on bark and stones.
There's a Hunter's Moon abroad tonight—
The twigs are snapping like brittle bones.

You carry a lantern of rose-green glass,
Your dress is red as a Cardinal's cloak.

Clarke Sanders and may Margret
Walkt ower yon gravel'd green,
And sad and heavy was the Love
I wat it fell this twa between.

A bed, a bed, Clark Sanders said,
A bed, a bed for you and I;
Fye na, fye na, the Lady said,
Untill the day we married be.

[For in] will come my seven brothers
And a' their torches burning bright;
Thayl say, We hae but ae sister,
And here her lying wi' a knight.

Ye'll take the sourde fray my scabbard
An lowly lowly lift the gin,
And you may say your oth to save

Clear the field for the grand tournament of the nations!
The struggle to think the best thought, and to express it, in tone and color and form and word;
The struggle to do the greatest deeds, and lead the no-blest and most useful lives;
The struggle to see clearest and know truest and love strongest.
Your other blood-and-bludgeon contests but postpone the real fray.
The true knights are yearning to enter the lists, and you block the high festival with your brawling.
Is it possible you mistake this for the real event of history?

" Stop, stop!
I think I see my mother coming ...

" Oh mother, hast brought my golden ball,
And come to set me free? ... "

" I've neither brought thy golden ball,
Nor come to set thee free,
But I've come to see thee hung,
Upon this gallows-tree. "

" Stop, stop!
I think I see my father coming ...

" Oh father, hast brought my golden ball,
And come to set me free? ... "

" I've neither brought thy golden ball,
Nor come to set thee free,
But I have come to see thee hung,
Upon this gallows-tree. "

Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.

I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.

And the wind says " What? " to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say " What? " to me.

The clear cool note of the cuckoo which has ousted the legitimate nest-holder,
The whistle of the railway guard dispatching the train to the inevitable collision,
The maiden's monosyllabic reply to a polysyllabic proposal,
The fundamental note of the last trump, which is presumably D natural;
All of these are sounds to rejoice in, yea, to let your very ribs re-echo with:
But better than all of them is the absolutely last chord of the apparently inexhaustible pianoforte player.

The clear bright morning, with its scented air,
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends, as falls the gentle rain;
The tuneful birds, that all the night have slept,
Take up, at dawn, the evening's dying lay;
When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept,
And stole, with stealthy craft, their song away.
High overhead the forest's swaying boughs
Sprinkle with drops the traveller on his way
He hears afar the bells of tinkling cows,
Driven to pasture at the break of day;

The cleanly rush of the mountain air,
And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,
Are the only things that wander there,
The pitiful bones are laid at ease,
The grass has grown in his tangled hair,
And a rambling bramble binds his knees.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,
The only requiem-bells that rang
Were the hare-bell and the heather-bell.
Hushed he is with the holy spell
In the gentle hymn the wind sang,
And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.

He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;
The misty rain and cold dew