Beneath the barren artifice of red
That hides a fertile freshness on your face
I see the hypocritical embrace
Of courtesan and virgin, each in dread
Of yielding to the other, while your mouth
Reveals their secret of uneasiness.
Your mind has listened to a northern stress:
Your heart has heard, old rumors from the South.
This conflict, with its plaintive undertones,
Is like an idle phantom to your soul
Whose clear aloofness sometimes sears your eyes.
The sensual games that move your youthful bones
Are still for moments, while the distant goal

Beneath our feet, the shuddering bogs
Made earthquakes of their own,
For greenish-grizzled furtive frogs
And lizards lithe and brown;

And high to east and south and west,
Girt round with feet of gorse,
Lay, summering, breast by giant breast,
The titan brood of tors;

Golden and phantom-pale they lay,
Calm in the cloudless light,
Like gods that, slumbering, still survey
The obsequious infinite.

Plod, plod, through herbage thin or dense;
Past chattering rills of quartz;
Across brown bramble-coverts, whence

In early summer when the grasses grow
And trees surround my house with greenery,
The birds rejoice to have a refuge there
And I, too, love my home.
The fields are plowed and the new seed planted
And now is time again to read my books.
This out-of-the-way lane has no deep-worn ruts
And tends to turn my friends' carts away.
With happy face I pour the spring-brewed wine
And in the garden pick some greens to cook.
A gentle shower approaches from the east
Accompanied by a temperate breeze.
I skim through the Story of King Mu

Bend now thy body to the common weight:
— (But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn!
Those proud young shoulders, I myself made straight!
— How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?)

Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee:
— (But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes!
Those dancing feet — that I myself made free!
— How shall I sadden them to make them wise?)

Nay, then, thou shalt! Resist not — have a care!
— (Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit;
Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear —

Prince Tan of Yen knew how to treat a man —
His aim was vengeance on mighty Ying.
He long had looked for the man worth a hundred
And then as the years ran out he got Ching K'o.
" A gentleman will die for one who knows his worth;
With sword in hand I will leave Yen's capital,
My pallid charger whinnying through the streets
As they escort me, filled with high resolve. "
The hero's hair thrusts through his high hat,
His valor saturates the long capstring.
A farewell cup beside the River Yi,
Around him sit the heroes of the realm.

Ben Franklin munched a loaf of bread while walking down the street
And all the Philadelphia girls tee-heed to see him eat,
A country boy come up to town with eyes as big as saucers
At the ladies in their furbelows, the gempmun on their horses.

Ben Franklin wrote an almanac, a smile upon his lip,
It told you when to plant your corn and how to cure the pip,
But he salted it and seasoned it with proverbs sly and sage,
And people read “Poor Richard” till Poor Richard was the rage.

Ben Franklin made a pretty kite and flew it in the air

Ben Backstay was our boatswain,
A very merry boy,
For no one half so merrily
Could pipe all hands ahoy,
And when unto his summons
We did not well attend,
No lad than he more merrily,
Could handle the rope's end.

Singing chip chow, cherry chow,
Fol de riddle ido.
Singing chip chow, cherry chow,
Fol de riddle ido.

While sailing once, our captain,
Who was a jolly dog,
Served out to all the company,
A double share of grog.
Ben Backstay he got tipsy,
All to his heart's content,
And he being half seas over,
Why overboard he went.

I built my hut beside a traveled road
Yet hear no noise of passing carts and horses.
You would like to know how it is done?
With the mind detached, one's place becomes remote.
Picking chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge
I catch sight of the distant southern hills:
The mountain air is lovely as the sun sets
And flocks of flying birds return together.
In these things is a fundamental truth
I would like to tell, but lack the words.

Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth:
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of milennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Below the surface-stream, shallow and light,
Of what we say we feel--below the stream,
As light, of what we think we feel--there flows
With noiseless current strong, obscure and deep,
The central stream of what we feel indeed.