As I passed by a river-side,
And there as I did rein,
In argument I chanced to hear
A carnal and a crane.

The carnal said unto the crane,
“If all the world should turn,
Before we had the Father,
But now we have the Son.

“From whence does the Son come?
From where and from what place?”
He said: “In a manger,
Between an ox and ass.”

“I pray thee,” said the carnal,
“Tell me before thou go,
Was not the mother of Jesus
Conceived by the Holy Ghost?”

“She was the purest virgin,
And the cleanest from sin;

Beauty is so calm;
There is such passional stillness in the gaze
Of beauty: she is the balm,
The blaze.

Her hands go veiled in mist:
Brooding horizons gradually seem
Her hands: the Eucharist,
The Dream.

O whom frustration shards
And splinters in the crash with things as things,
Take what no barrier retards—

Of all Earth's varied, lovely moods,
The loveliest is when she broods
Among her dreaming solitudes
On Indian Summer days;
When on the hill the aster pales,
And Summer's stress of passion fails,
And Autumn looks through misty veils
Along her leafy ways.

How deep the tenderness that yearns
Within the silent wood that turns
From green to gold, and slowly burns
As by some inward fire!
How dear the sense that all things wild
Have been at last by love beguiled
To join one chorus, reconciled
In satisfied desire!

Come March-clouds are and the blowing Breezes of the new-born year;
Wine-gold I desire and minstrel Who shall say, “Behold, 'tis here!”

Goodly show the fair; but shamefast Am I for my empty purse.
How much longer must I suffer This shamefacedness, o sphere?

Dearth of grace there is: the water Of one's face one must not sell:
Wine and roses with the patchcoat's Price must buy the patchcoateer.

Yet, belike, some way shall Fortune Open up unto our need;
For I yesternight was praying And the true dawn did appear.

Death is the servant of your Lord,
Ye saints, why should ye weep?
Lord Jesus tells you in his word,
That death, in him, is sleep.

Are your dear friends or kindred gone
To sing before the throne?
And are you left on earth to mourn,
To mourn your loss alone?

Weep for your loss, but not for them,
Nor mourn your loss too long;
Their place and yours will be the same
'Midst yon celestial throng.

Your loss is their eternal gain,
And all things work for good
While we rejoice in Jesus slain,
And humbly walk with God.

Think of an opening page illuminèd
With the ready azure and high carmine:—think
Her face was such, as being diaperèd
With loops of veins; not of an even pink,

Down drops the red sun in the burnished sea,
Down in rejoicing might
Into the trembling deep:
And while his hot rim slowly vanisheth
As if all drowned in sleep,
Soft swaying o'er the fragrant lea,
The Ave-chime forewarns the night,
And every care and labour banisheth.
‘Ave, Maria’ so it saith.

Slowly the red herd follows in a line
The sheep-bell fainter falls,
The corncrake's wooden note
Creaks through the green ears, rustling, waving slowly—
Like swaying, wind-tost boat;
Then hallowing the day's decline,

As I kissed Agathon my soul swelled to my lips,
where it hangs, pitiful, hoping to leap across.

Mother-in-law, do not stamp
on the kitchen floor
for hatred of your
daughter-in-law!
Was she payment for a debt,
was she bought for a price?
Father-in-law, severe as a sprig
from the rotting stump of
a chestnut tree,
Mother-in-law, shriveled as
sun-baked cattle dung,
Sister-in-law, sharp as
a new gimlet poking from a straw bag
woven three years ago, and—
like a poor crop on a field
that's made for planting good grain,
having borne a son like
a bright yellow cucumber flower,
who has the bloody flux,

Of all the wimming doubly blest
The sailor's wife's the happiest,
For all she does is stay to home
And knit and darn—and let 'im roam.

Of all the husbands on the earth
The sailor has the finest berth,
For in 'is cabin he can sit
And sail and sail—and let 'er knit.