Ah me, the subtle boundary between
What pleases and what pains! The difference
Between the word that thrills our every sense
With joy and one which hurts, although it mean
No hurt! It is the things that are unseen,
Invisible, not things of violence,
For which the mightiest are without defence.
On kine most fair to see one may grow lean
With hunger. Many a snowy bread is doled
Which is far harder than the hardest stones.
'Tis but a narrow line divides the zones
Where suns are warm from those where suns are cold.
'Twixt harmonies divine as chords can hold

Three grievous allotments had Fortune decreed:—
Allotment the first,—with a slave man to marry;
The second,—the mother to be of his seed;
The third,—until death his hard yoke e'er to carry.
And all these allotments so grievous did lie
On woman 'neath Russia's broad sky.

The ages have passed: all for pleasure has striven;
To manifold change all on earth has been given.

The poor peasant woman alone is forgot:
No change in her lot has God made.
Of feminine beauty and strength, we all wot,
The type, 'mong the Slavs, has decayed.

Now I return to my own land and people,
Old familiar things so to recover,
Hedgerows and little lanes and meadows,
The friendliness of my own land and people.

I have seen a world-frieze of glowing orange,
Palms painted black on the satin horizon:
Palm-trees in the dusk and the silence standing
Straight and still against a background of orange;

A gorgeous magical pomp of light and colour,
A dream-world, a sparkling gem in the sunlight,
The minarets and domes of an Eastern city;
And in the midst of all the pomp of colour

“N OW since mine even is come at last,—
For I have been the sport of steel,
And hot life ebbeth from me fast,
And I in saddle roll and reel,—
Come bind me, bind me on my steed!
Of fingering leech I have no need!”
The chaplain clasped his mailëd knee.
“Nor need I more thy whine and thee!
No time is left my sins to tell;
But look ye bind me, bind me well!”
They bound him strong with leathern thong,
For the ride to the lady should be long.

Day was dying; the poplars fled,
Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red;
Out of the sky the fierce hue fell,

In woods and desart bounds
A beast abroad doth roame,
So loving sweetnesse and the honey combe,
It doth despise the armes of bees and wounds.
I by like pleasure led,
To prove what heavens did place
Of sweet on your faire face,
Whilst therewith I am fed,
Rest carelesse, beare of love, of hellish smart,
And how those eyes afflict and wound my heart.

Come , sing a song of Charity!
Oh, may she ne'er forsake us!
For, good or bad, we're all what God
And circumstances make us.
What's clear to me is dim to thee;
Opinions are divided;
'Tis hard to judge what's wholly fudge,
For things are many-sided.

I have a few thoughts of my own,
With no one would I niffer;
On such points both may be mista'en,
So let's agree to differ.
We'll sing a song of Charity,
And may she ne'er forsake us!
For, good or bad, we're all what God
And circumstances make us.

Yet men will sigh, and wonder why

The wind blew out from Bergen from the dawning to the day,
There was a wreck of trees and fall of towers a score of miles away,
And drifted like a livid leaf I go before its tide,
Spewed out of house and stable, beggared of flag and bride.
The heavens are bowed about my head, shouting like seraph wars,
With rains that might put out the sun and clean the sky of stars,
Rains like the fall of ruined seas from secret worlds above,
The roaring of the rains of God none but the lonely love.
Feast in my hall, O foemen, and eat and drink and drain,

It's back I'd be in my home again, that is up by Carra way,
Where quilted petticoats they wear and suits of hodden grey,
The good wives by Carra way and bold men straight and strong—
And here I walk on grey streets and always thinking long!

The whins on flower by Carra way and the lush land so still!
And the white lake of Carra sleeps under the hush of the hill—
Brown loaves in the oven rise, drone the honey bees,
The thatched home snug on the braes beneath the humming trees!

So it's back I'd be in my home again where they wait for me day and day,

Dear urge no more that killing cause
Of our divorce;
Love is not fetter'd by such laws,
Nor bows to any force:
Though thou deniest I should be thine,
Yet say not thou deserv'st not to be mine.

Oh rather frown away my breath
With thy disdain,
Or flatter me with smiles to death;
By joy or sorrow slain,
'Tis lesse crime to be kill'd by thee,
Then I thus cause of mine own death should be.

Thy self of beauty to devest
And me of love,
Or from the worth of thine own breast
Thus to detract, would prove
In us a blindnesse, and in thee

Titty Mary, you know I gwine follow, I gwine follow, gwine follow,
Brudder William, you know I gwine to follow, For to do my Fader will.
'Tis well and good I'm acomin' here tonight, I'm acomin' here tonight,
I'm acomin' here tonight.
'Tis well and good, I'm acomin' here tonight, For to do my Fader will