I sagh Him with flesh al bi-spred: He cam from Est.
I sagh Him with blood al bi-shed: He cam from West.
I sagh that manye He with Him broughte: He cam from South.
I sagh that the world of Him ne roughte: He came from North.
‘I come from the wedlok as a swete spouse that habbe my wif with me y-nume.
I come from fight as staleworthe knight that mine fo habbe overcume.
I come from the cheping as a riche chapman that mankinde habbe y-bought.
I come from an uncouthe lande as a sely pilegrim that ferr habbe y-sought.’

I love the narrow lane's dark bows,
When summer glows or winter blows;
Or when the hedge-born primrose hides
Its head upon the dry banksides,
By ribby-rinded maple shoots,
Or round the dark-stemm'd hazel's roots;
Where weather-beaten ivy winds
Unwith'ring o'er the elms' brown rinds,
And where the ashes white bough whips
The whistling air with coal-black tips;
And where the grassy ground, beside
The gravel-washing brook, lies wide,
And leaping lambs, with shrill-toned throats,
Bleat loudly in their first white coats,

“Where is Adams?” that was the cry,
“Let us question him before he die.”

Naught around in the night was seen
Save the glimmer of lamps, where the crash had been.

Right across the six-feet way,
One huge hulk, engine and tender lay,

While the wailing hiss of the steam took the air,
By fits, like the low, dull tone of despair.

But still above all, rose that one clear cry—
“Speak to Adams before he die.”

“Here,” I said, “turn your lamps on me,”
And I laid Jim's head upon my knee.

“Jim, old mate,” I said in his ear,

Only to-day the maples start to wear
That look of inward burgeoning, and I feel
Colors I see not in the naked air,
Lance-keen, and with the little blue of steel.

No bud is forth nor green abroad and yet
Air seems to wait with raiment for earth's flowers;
Above these banks, haunt of the violet,
Hover with purple scarfs the tiring hours.

I am Cassander, come down from the Sky,
To tell each Bystander—what none can deny
That I am Cassander come down from the Sky.

The house where I was born,
Where I was young and gay,
Grows old amid its corn,
Amid its scented hay.

Moan of the cushat dove,
In silence rich and deep;
The old head I love
Nods to its quiet sleep.

Where once were nine and ten
Now two keep house together;
The doves moan and complain
All day in the still weather.

What wind, bitter and great,
Has swept the country's face,
Altered, made desolate
The heart-remembered place?

What wind, bitter and wild,
Has swept the towering trees
Beneath whose shade a child

In the little red house by the river,
—When the short night fell,
Beside his web sat the weaver,
—Weaving a twisted spell.
Mary and the Saints deliver
—My soul from the nethermost Hell!

In the little red house by the rushes
—It grew not dark at all,
For day dawned over the bushes
—Before the night could fall.
Where now a torrent rushes,
—The brook ran thin and small.

In the little red house a chamber
—Was set with jewels fair;
There did a vine clamber
—Along the clambering stair,
And grapes that shone like amber

If I had chosen, my tears had all been dews;
I would have drawn a bird's or blossom's breath,
Nor outmoaned yonder dove. I did not choose—
And here is Life for me, and there is Death.

Ay, here is Life. Bloom for me, violet;
Whisper me, Love, all things that are not true;
Sing, nightingale and lark, till Iforget—
For here is Life, and I have need of you.

So, there is Death. Fade, violet, from the land;
Cease from your singing, nightingale and lark;
Forsake me, Love, for I without your hand
Can find my way more surely to the dark.

By the margin of the ocean, one morning in the month of June,
The feathered warbling songsters their charming notes did sweetly sing,
I there espied a female who seemed to be in grief and woe
Discoursing with young Bonaparte concerning the Bonny Bunch of Roses O.

Then up steps young Napoleon and takes his mother by the hand,
Saying: "Mother dear, have patience until I'm able to take command;
And I will raise a terrible army, and through termenjous dangers go,
And, in spite of all the universe, I will conquer the Bonny Bunch of Roses O.'

In the old land the Christ was sent to death,
And in old land and new the Christs have preceded and followed each other to the same cross.
The story is often retold, the count again and again is made.
But here were thousands of Christs for one Christ,
Here were Christs in battalions given to save the earth from wreck,
Here were Christs in black and white, Christs in childhood and old age, offered as tribute to the shaken globe:
Christs who stood before menace and took the blow, Christs evil and good who shared the single sacrifice,