English

The bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay:
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man's breath to-day.

The bees and I are alone in the grass: the air is so very still
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.

Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds I cannot hear —
That, when no other sound is plain, ring in my empty ear:

The chime of striking scythes, the fall of the heavy swaths they sweep —
They ring about me, resting, when I waver half asleep;

Been to Pike's Peak, lost all my dimes,
And for a week had “darn'd hard times”
Hunting for gold, 'mong rocks and hills,
Catching a cold, the fever and chills.
Got mighty sick—felt very sad,
Stung to the quick, times were so bad;
Money all spent, worn out my shoes,
Clothing all rent—I had the blues:
Got in the lurch—my spirits down,
Gave up the search, came back to town,
Footsore, weary, hungry, spleeny,
Heartsick, dreary, and ———greeny
To leave mother, a pleasant home,
And a dear brother, away to roam,

Been on the hummer since ninety-four,
Last job I had was on the Lake Shore,
Lost my office in the A. R. U.
And I won't get it back till nineteen-two
And I'm still on the hog train flagging my meals,
Ridin' the brake beams close to the wheels.

A bee upon a briar-rose hung
And wild with pleasure suck'd and kiss'd;
A flesh-fly near, with snout in dung,
Sneer'd, "What a Transcendentalist!"

Becky
Deem
She was a gambling gal
Win all the money
And she winned it fair
Becky
Deem
She was a gambling gal
She win all the money
And she winned it fair

Becky
Deem
Had the gamblers all on the ground
She win all the money
The skinners / laid / down
Becky
Deem
Had the gamblers all on the ground
She win all the money
The skinners / laid / down

She started
To hit one
With her cigarette case
Might-a hear the rascal hollering

Because you are to me a song
I must not sing you over-long.

Because you are to me a prayer
I cannot say you everywhere.

Because you are to me a rose —
You will not stay when summer goes.

Because thow wast the daughter of a kyng,
whose beautye, dyd all natures workes exceede,
and wysedome, wonder to the world dyd breede,
a Muse myght rayse yt self on Cupids wynge.
But syth theys graces which from Nature sprynge,
were grac'd by those which from grace dyd proceede,
and glory haith deserv'd; my muse doth neede
an Angells feathers, when thy prayse I synge.
For all in thee, became Angelycall:
an Angells face, had Angells puritye:
and thou an Angells tongue did'st speake withall.

First Traveller: What's that lying in the dust?
Second Traveller: A crooked stick.
First Traveller: What's it worth, if you can trust
— — To arithmetic?
Second Traveller: Isn't this a riddle?
First Traveller: No, a trick.
Second Traveller: It's worthless. Leave it where it lies.
First Traveller: Wait; count ten;
— — Rub a little dust upon your eyes;
— — Now, look again.
Second Traveller: Well, and what the devil is it, then?
First Traveller: It's the sort of crooked stick that shepherds know.

Because the cithole hath a thousand tones
Inwrought with many subtile harmonies
Of lute and flute wherein sweet music dies,
Yea, all the bitter-sweet that love disowns,
Mournful are they and full of heavy moans
And tears and interpenetrative sighs,
Soul-stirred with ultimate immensities,
And incommunicable antiphones!

So is the soul fulfilled of saddest things,
Of multitudinous sighs more sad than they
Whereof Earth hears no sound, yet nothing may
Drown the deep murmur of its echoings:

Because mine eyes are fashioned so,
Shalt thou forsake thy house and hearth,
And like a beggar thou shalt go,
Despised of men and nothing worth.
Fair fame and fortune — all shall be
As trodden dust beneath your feet,
Because of me!

And we shall know the town at eve
Where, in the gas-illumined street,
Unhappy people make-believe,
And proven friends are few to meet —
Where lust and hunger, toil and hate,
In noisy riot pay their due
To cynic Fate.

Such bitter things and sweet shall fill