English

Catching the water that drips
from a hose dangling from a water tower,
a baby sparrow is bathing.
It trots up to it, flaps its wings,
and trots back again.
It's repeating the same movement many times over.
Yes: No matter what happens to the world,
sparrow, stay there, repeating your movement eternally, without resting.
There's rumbling in the C61 boiler.

The captain is drinking rum.
Drinking and singing something.
His song, hoarse, is as sad as the block slowly turning with the halyard;
a seagull, wingbeat hushed, went through the half light astern, whispering.
Soon the moon must rise at the estuary.

The captain's chest too is at full tide with red rum.
At the bottom of its flow
tonight too the tattooed anchor wavers blue.

" Buy me a Kyoto comb, yes, a Kyoto comb!
Yes, a Kyoto comb to make my hair sleek! "
" I've bought you a comb. Comb your hair, girl.
Your hair, longer than you're tall,
your long hair, look! as you walk, it gets tangled in your sandals. "

BUY my English posies!
Kent and Surrey may —
Violets of the Undercliff
Wet with Channel spray;
Cowslips from a Devon combe —
Midland furze afire —
Buy my English posies
And I'll sell your heart's desire!

Buy my English posies!
You that scorn the May,
Won't you greet a friend from home

"Centre of Earth!' a Chinaman he said,
And bent over a map his pig-tailed head,--
That map in which, portrayed in colours bright,
China, all dazzling, burst upon the sight;
'Centre of Earth!' repeatedly he cries,
'Land of the brave, the beautiful, the wise!'
Thus he exclaimed; when lo his words arrested
Showed what sharp agony his head had tested.
He feels a tug--another, and another--
And quick exclaims, "Hallo! what's now the bother?'
But soon, alas, perceives. And, "Why, false night,

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be
My private protonotary?

Call me no more,
As heretofore,
The musick of a Feast;
Since now (alas)
The mirth, that was
In me, is dead or ceast.

Before I went
To banishment
Into the loathed West;
I co'd rehearse
A Lyrick verse,
And speak it with the best.

But time (Ai me)
Has laid, I see
My Organ fast asleep;
And turn'd my voice
Into the noise
Of those that sit and weep.

I

LEE O. HARRIS

SCHOOLMASTER and Songmaster! Memory
 Enshrines thee with an equal love, for thy
 Duality of gifts,—thy pure and high
Endowments—Learning rare, and Poesy.
These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee,
 Throughout all seasons of the years gone by,
 With all enduring joys 'twixt earth and sky—
In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me.
Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on,
 Is endless inspiration, fresh and free
  As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine;

Children of yesterday,
Heirs of tomorrow,
What are you weaving?
Labor and sorrow?
Look to your looms again.
Faster and faster
Fly the great shuttles
Prepared by the Master;
Life's in the loom,
Room for it—
Room!

Children of yesterday,
Heirs of tomorrow,
Lighten the labor
And sweeten the sorrow.
Now, while the shuttles fly
Faster and faster,
Up and be at it,
At work with the Master;
He stands at your loom,
Room for Him—
Room!

Children , do you ever,
In walks by land or sea,
Meet a little maiden
Long time lost to me!

She is gay and gladsome,
Has a laughing face,
And a heart as sunny;
And her name is Grace.

Naught she knows of sorrow,
Naught of doubt or blight;
Heaven is just above her —
All her thoughts are white.

Long time since I lost her,
That other Me of mine;
She crossed into Time's shadow
Out of Youth's sunshine.

Now the darkness keeps her;
And, call her as I will,