I

Boy Brittan — only a lad — a fair-haired boy — sixteen.
In his uniform.
Into the storm — into the roaring jaws of grim Fort Henry —
Boldly bears the Federal flotilla —
Into the battle storm!

II

Boy Brittan is master's mate aboard of the Essex —
There he stands, buoyant and eager-eyed,
By the brave captain's side;
Ready to do and dare. Aye, aye, sir! always ready —
In his country's uniform.
Boom! Boom! and now the flag-boat sweeps, and now the Essex,

Mountains wreathed in wisps of light cloud;
Withered grass stretches to meet the far horizon.
Muted the sound of bugles on the gate tower;
Ready to depart, a boat moored at the river's edge.
How many things bygone at the Fairy Pavilion
Return to mind in a misty haze,
As listlessly we drain our cups to bid adieu!
Beyond the setting sun, a scattering of crows in the cold air
Are winging above a stream
That winds round a solitary village.

Heart-rending this moment of separation
When the scented bag is tenderly given away as a memento,

Bow down, my song, before her presence high,
In that far world where you must seek her now;
Say that you bring to her no sonnetry,
But plain-set anguish of the breast or brow;
Say that on earth I sang to her alone,
But now, while in her heaven she sits divine,
Turning, I tell the world my bitter moan,
Bidding it share its hopes and griefs with mine,
Versing not what I would, but what I must,
Wail of the wind, or sobbing of the wave;
Ah! say you raised my bowed head from the dust,
And held me backward from a willful grave;

A suggestion of chill pervades the little bower,
The haze of dawn sulky as though it were deep autumn.
On the painted screen, thin mist hovering over a running brook —
A scene tranquil and serene.

Fallen petals flying at ease — ethereal like dreams;
Mizzling rain in an endless stream — fine as sorrow.
The jeweled curtain hung up idly on a little hook of silver.

1. The bounty of Jehovah praise; This God of Gods all sceptres sways.
2. Him praise who framed the archèd sky, Those orbs that move so orderly;
Thanks to the Lord Of Lords afford, And his amazing wonders blaze.
Firm earth above. The floods that move, Displayed and raised the hills on high.
For from the King of Kings Eternal mercy springs.
For from the King of Kings Eternal mercy springs.

3. The sun and moon informed with light,
To guide the day, and rule the night;
The fix-èd stars
And wanderers,
Created by divine foresight.

Bounce ball! Bounce ball!
One — two — three.
Underneath my right leg
And round about my knee.
Bounce ball! Bounce ball!
Bird — or — bee
Flying from the rose-bud
Up into the tree.

Bounce ball! Bounce ball!
Fast — you — go
Underneath my left leg
And round about my toe.
Bounce ball! Bounce ball!
Butt — er — fly
Flying from the rose-bud
Up in the sky.

Bounce ball! Bounce ball!
You — can't — stop.
Right leg and left leg
Round them both you hop.
Bounce ball! Bounce ball!
Shy — white — dove,

Spring wind in North Park —
Square tablet, round disk of jade,
Fame that stirs capital and frontier a myriad miles away;
Shattered body, powdered bones —
Achievements worthy of the Ling-yen Hall of Heroes.
At the banquet it wins the palm of refinement,
Downs spring sleep,
Pushes back the boundary of grief.
Offered by slender hands,
Rubbed to paste and whipped to milky froth.
Golden thread, partridge-striped.

Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju, though sick of thirst,
Produced a song for every flask —
We have poets here,

Bought at the drug store, very cheap; and later pawned.
After a while, heard on the street; seen in the park.
Familiar but not quite recognized.
Followed and taken home and slept with.
Traded or sold. Or lost.
Bought again at the corner drug store,
At the green light, at the patient's demand, at nine o'clock.
Re-read and memorized and re-wound.
Found unsuitable.
Smashed, put together, and pawned.
Heard on the street, seen in a dream, heard in the park,
seen by the light of day,
Carefully observed one night by a secret agent of the

The bright moon like frost,
A fair breeze like water,
The scene in all directions perfectly sharp:
Leaping fish in the winding stream
Round lotus leaves washed with dew —
All is silent and deserted.
Like the roll of the third watch drum,
A single leaf rustles
And the dark dream-cloud is rudely broken.
In all the vastness of night,
No place to seek her out again.
Awake, I pace around the little garden.

The weary traveler at the world's end,
Whose road back lies through mountains,

Vainglory in Snailhorn,
Petty profit on Flyshead:
It all adds up to effort wasted.
If everything is determined in advance,
Then who is weak, who is strong?
With what time I have left before I am old,
Let me be irresponsible for a little bit.
In my hundred years,
I'd still like to be drunk
Thirty-six thousand times.

Reckon it up —
How much can you have,
With worry and grief, wind and rain
Taking away a good half?
But why
Go on till you die, talking about the short end and the big deal?