Eastern mountains
and western mountains;
land of Ch'in
and land of Han.
Light, light clouds
over the city;
flowing, flowing water
through past and present.
Crumbling ruins,
plowed under on terraced slopes;
woodcutters chatting
as they come home at evening.
Even in decline
there are “better” and “worse”;
King Yu
was worst of all.

In high school she liked Latin and the balances of algebra.
Her mother had died years before and her father married again.
The new wife was solicitous for her husband. “A workingman—has he the means for this education of a girl?”
They took her out of school and got her a job as a bookkeeper.

A student at one of the universities whom she had met in high school, began to call.
She herself had been reading, but evenings are too short; besides, her reading was haphazard.

Is trom an t-airsneul so th'air m'aigne,
Le fadachd 's le mìghean,
A bhuin mo threòir 's mo thàbhachd dhiom,
Cha ghabhadh ceòl na mànran rium;
Ach thàinig ùr-thosgair da m'iunnsaidh
Dhùisg mi as mo shuain,
'N uair fhuair mi 'n sgeul bha mòr ri éigh'd
Gu'n d'eatromaich mo smuain.

Is latha sealbhach, rathail, dealrach,
Allail, ainmeil, àghmhor,
A dh'fhuasgail air na h-Albannaich,
O mhachraichean gu garbhlaichean,
O uisge-Thuaid gu Arcamh chuain,
O Dheas gu Tuath gu léir;
Is binne 'n srann, feadh shrath a's ghleann,
Na organ gun mheang gleus.

St. Nicholas distributed as he list,
His gifts, and is a good Distributist:
The Heathens, on the other hand, are not:
He mixed two children: and
they went to pot.

B ELOVËD , when I saw thee sleeping there,
And watched the tender curving of thy mouth,
The cheek, our home of kisses, the soft hair,
And over all a languor of the south;
And marked thy house of thought, thy forehead, where
All trouble of the earth was then at rest;
And thy dear eyes, a blessing to the blest,
Their ivory gates closed on this world of care,—

Then, then I prayed that never wrong of mine,
That never pain which haunts these earth-built bowers,
If I could hinder, or could aught relieve,
Should ever more make sad this heart of thine;

The oven is getting warm. She sits in her apron with the big
Orange blocks cleaning the birds and I smell the potatoes
On the stove boiling and I see how her face is pale from
My child in her belly. Someone is away who never speaks of
Saint Patrick someone is away as an Irishman is away from
His country. Great people leave their country sooner
Or later. Don't ask me to prove there is a moon in the sky
Tonight, don't ask me to show you where the sun leaves off
And the moon begins. Let us keep some faith in miracles.

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood—
Touch of manner, hint of mood;
And my heart is like a rhyme,
With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.

I know you now: 'tis vain to try
And cozen me with tearful eye.
When round your waist my arms are thrown
It's me you love and me alone.
But when another has you, then
You vow that he's your king of men.

what is strictly fiercely and wholly dies
his impeccable feathered with green facts
preening solemnity ignoring, through
its indolent lascivious caring eyes

watches; truly, curvingly while reacts
(sharp now with blood now accurately wan)
keenly, to dreamings more than truth untrue,

the best mouth I have seen on any man—
a little fluttering, at the enchanted dike
of whose lean lips, hovers how slenderly
the illustrious unknown.


(warily as
their master's spirit stooping, Crusoelike
examines fearingly and tenderly

At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
And heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time was come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track
The coach and horses, midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,