English

Old Mrs. Tressider
Over at Winches
Is knitting a scarf
Of many gay inches,
An inch of scarlet,
Another of blue,
An inch of green
(The apple'y hue),
Another, bright
As a sunlit meadow,
And yet a third
Like a tree in shadow;
Crimson like sunset,
Rosy like dawn,
Purple like twilight
Over a lawn;
Noonday blue
And rain-cloud grey,
And an inch of white
As flowers-o'-May.
So she purls
And plains them together—
All the moods
Of the world and weather—
Into a scarf

What now! allready are those wagers layd
Which not these thousand yeares are to be payd?
Then (if the world do last soe long) then strive
Whether the great Gustavus bee alive.
Now to contend is an abortive strife,—
'Tis to make Butter's booke his booke of life.
Who can say Gideon yet, or Josua's dead,
Whilst their eternall deeds of armes are read?
Nor shall it be a Bett till the last day,
Whether this Kinge be dead, or broke his way.
'Twas said of John, that he should never dye,
And th' envious mates were checkt for reasoning why.

The Spirit of Britannia
Invokes across the main
Her sister Allemannia
To burst the tyrant's chain:
By our kindred blood she cries,
Rise, Allemannians, rise,
And hallowed thrice the band
Of our kindred hearts shall be,
When your land shall be the land
Of the free—of the free!

With Freedom's lion-banner
Britannia rules the waves;
Whilst your broad stone of honour
Is still the camp of slaves.
For shame, for glory's sake,
Wake, Allemannians, wake,
And the tyrants now that whelm

For thoughts that curve like winging birds
Out of the summer dusk each time
I drink the splendor of the sky
And touch the wood-winds swinging by—
I yield Thee praise.

For waves that lift from autumn seas
To spill strange music on the land,
The broken nocturne of a lark
Flung out upon the lonely dark—
I yield Thee praise.

For rain that piles gray torrents down
Black mountain-gullies to the plain,
For singing fields and crimson flare
At daybreak, and the sea-sweet air—
I yield Thee praise.

Unhappy man! uplift thine eyes, look up to where a thousand thousand gather on the hills in joyous expectation of the dawn!
Regard them, they are all thy brothers, sisters, the troops of those poor wights who hitherto knew naught of life but suffering, have been but strangers on this earth of Joy; they all are waiting for that Revolution which affrights thee, their redeemer from this world of sorrow, creator of a new world that blesses all!

There isn't much dumb Dora doesn't know
About the art of pinning down a beau.
No homely woman's convoluted brains
Can pile in pyramids the broiling swains
Whom one dark look of Dora's pierces through
And one cool look of Dora's turns to glue
That sticks to her and sticks till she decides
To peel the fellows off for newer tides
Of humid little Don Juans who'd love
To fit her latest whimsey like a glove.

There isn't one erotic book on earth
That wouldn't fill dumb Dora full of mirth
If she had time to read or ever read

My love
Is like the grasses
Hidden in the deep mountain:
Though its abundance increases,
There is none that knows.

Did I ever think
That decaying
In the loneliness of a barbarian land
I should become a shore-hunter
Tugging at the ropes of fishermen?

The beloved person must I think
Have entered
The summer mountain:
For the cuckoo is singing
With a louder note.

Now that I've built my house
near the meadows,
morning after morning
I hear the sound
of the warbler singing