Do not repeat yourself.
Do not repeat yourself.
Habits are hard to break.
Habits are hard to break.
Repeat: Hard. Break. Habits
Are not to do yourself.

Why do you look that way?
Why do you look that way?
Am I so very strange to you?
Am I so very strange to you?
To look way strange, why that?
So you do. I am very you.

The days go slipping by.
The days go slipping by.
Before you can catch them.
Before you can catch them.
Slipping before you go,
Catch them. Days. By the can.

Habits catch you slipping
By yourself. Look to the

I know a Tulledegan flower rare
That lifts between the rocks a blushing face,
And doth with every wind its sweetness share
That bloweth over its wild dwelling-place.
It gathers beauty where the storms are rough
And clings devoted to the rugged bluff.

Far 'bove its sisters in the vale below,
It swings its censor like a ruby star,
And thither all the days of summer go
The mountain bees—fierce knights of love and war—
To seal in noontide hour—O hour of bliss!—
Each tender vow of true love with a kiss.

And often, like a beauteous blossom blown

YOUNG mother, he is gone!
His dimpled cheek no more will touch thy breast;
No more the music-tone
Float from his lips, to thine all fondly press'd;
His smile and happy laugh are lost to thee:
Earth must his mother and his pillow be.

His was the morning hour,
And he had pass'd in beauty from the day,
A bud, not yet a flower,
Torn, in its sweetness, from the parent spray;
The death-wind swept him to his soft repose,
As frost, in spring-time, blights the early rose.

Never on earth again
Will his rich accents charm thy listening ear,

When almond buds unclose,
Soft white and tender rose,—
A swarm of white moth things,
With sunset on their wings,
That fluttering settle down
On branches chill and brown;
When all the sky is blue,
And up from grasses new
Blithe springs the meadow lark,—
Sweet, sweet, from dawn to dark;—
When all the young year's way
Grows sweeter day by day;—
When almond buds unclose,
Who doubts of May's red rose?

The scene was bathed in beauty rare,
For Alpine grandeur toppled there,
With emerald spots between,
A summer-evening's blush of rose
All faintly warmed the crested snows,
And tinged the valleys green;

Night gloom'd apace, and dark on high
The thousand banners of the sky
Their awful width unfurl'd,
Veiling Mont Blanc's majestic brow,
That seem'd among its cloud-wrapt snow,
The ghost of some dead world:

When Pierre the hunter cheerly went
To scale the Catton's battlement
Before the peep of day;
He took his rifle, pole, and rope,

I love her just the same as ever Though now she looks above me
Had she done wrong I could forgive her And would for ever love her
And do I kiss thy cheek again The rose o the creation
Those lips that rubies vie in vain As sweet as a carnation

I wish I was some little flower Some flower she likes the best
She'd pluck me in the sunny hour And pin me to her breast
She'd pin me to her breast for love And I that love should be
O could I such a favour prove Choice were such love to me

A black cloak o'er her shoulders thrown Made of the finest silk

Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?
O mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?

Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.

Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother?
While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?

Yes, shadow-child; the livelong day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.

Why do the birds sing in the sun,

They crush together--a rustling heap of flesh--
Of more than flesh, a heap of souls; and then
They part, enmesh,
And crush together again,
Like the pink petals of a too sanguine rose
Frightened shut just when it blows.

Though all alike in their tinsel livery,
And indistinguishable at a sweeping glance,
They muster, maybe,
As lives wide in irrelevance;
A world of her own has each one underneath,
Detached as a sword from its sheath.

Daughters, wives, mistresses; honest or false, sold, bought;
Hearts of all sizes; gay, fond, gushing, or penned,

Beginne with Jove; then is the worke halfe done;
And runnes most smoothly, when tis well begunne.
Jove's is the first and last: The Morn's his due,
The midst is thine; But Joves the Evening too;
As sure as Mattins do's to him belong,
So sure he layes claime to the Evensong.

No place commendes the man vnworthie praise.
No title of state doth stay vp vices fall:
No wicked wight to wo can make delayes,
No loftie lookes preserue the proude at all
No brags or boast, no stature high and tall,
No lusty yought, no swearing, stareing stout,
No brauerie, banding, cogging, cutting out.

Then what availes to haue a Princly place,
A name of honour or an high degree,
To come by kindred of a noble race?
Except wee Princely, worthie, noble be.
The fruites declare the goodnes of the tree.
gge no more, of birth or linage than,