English

The auncient acquaintance, madam, betwen us twain,
The familiarite, the formar daliaunce,
Causith me that I can not myself refraine
But that I must write for my pleasaunt pastaunce:
Remembring your passing goodly countenaunce,
Your goodly port, your beuteous visage,
Ye may be countid comfort of all corage.

Of all your feturs favorable to make tru discripcion,
I am insufficient to make such enterprise;
For thus dare I say, without contradiccion,
That dame Melanippe was never half so wise:

Part I
The auld wife sat at her ivied door,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
A thing she had frequently done before;
And her spectacles lay on her apron'd knees.

The piper he piped on the hill-top high,
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
Till the cow said "I die,' and the goose ask'd "Why?'
And the dog said nothing, but search'd for fleas.

The farmer he strode through the square farmyard;
(Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese)
His last brew of ale was a trifle hard--

At seven, when I go to bed,
I find such pictures in my head:
Castles with dragons prowling round,
Gardens where magic fruits are found;
Fair ladies prisoned in a tower,
Or lost in an enchanted bower;
While gallant horsemen ride by streams
That border all this land of dreams
I find, so clearly in my head
At seven, when I go to bed.

At seven, when I wake again,
The magic land I seek in vain;
A chair stands where the castle frowned,
The carpet hides the garden ground,
No fairies trip across the floor,

At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter's camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;

The baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing tonight of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?

Be proud as Spaniards! Leap for pride, ye fleas!
Henceforth in nature's minim world grandees,
In Phoebus' archives registered are ye —
And this your patent of nobility.
No skipjacks now, nor civiller skip-johns,
Dread Anthropophagi! Specks of living bronze,
I hail you one and all, sans pros or cons,
Descendants from a noble race of dons.

What though that great ancestral flea be gone,
Immortal with immortalizing Donne —
His earthly spots bleached off as Papists gloze
In purgatory fire on Bardolph's nose?

All day he shoves the pasteboard in
The slick machine that turns out boxes,
A box a minute; and its din
Is all his music, as he stands
And feeds it; while his jaded brain
Moves only out and in again
With the slick motion of his hands,
Monotonously making boxes,
A box a minute—all his thoughts
A slick succession of empty boxes.

But, when night comes, and he is free
To play his fiddle, with the music
His whole soul moves to melody;
No more recalling day's dumb round,
His reckless spirit sweeps and whirls

Autumn winds blow along the river,
blow upon a man in hunger;
he has a wife lovely as a flower,
but no means to put food on her plate!
Toward sunset with great clamor
a grain barge moors in the harbor.
The officer in charge sits at the prow;
gazing about, he sees the lovely face.
He sends a man with an urgent message:
" I have plenty of clothes and food.
You are going to starve to death —
why not join me, and we'll work together.
Work with me for one year,
and I'll send you home for a fee.

Autumn colors trickle through the gauze curtains;
cold fragrance floats in, bit by bit.
The chirping of crickets rises from the dark walls;
fireflies flicker in the abandoned loom.
The bedroom fills with new moonlight;
frost on the bamboo screens —
she changes to warmer clothes.
The migrating goose, the wanderer —
both are gone, only one

At this remote village, I have no neighbors.
In my thatched house, late at night: rain.
A dog barks somewhere out in the fields.
The cook whispers softly in the kitchen.