English

Waiting , waiting. 'Tis so far
To the day that is to come:
One by one the days that are
All to tell their countless sum;
Each to dawn and each to die—
What so far as by and by?

Waiting, waiting. 'Tis not ours,
This to-day that flies so fast:
Let them go, the shadowy hours
Floating, floated, into Past.
Our day wears to-morrow's sky,—
What so near as by and by?

An angel burdened with self-pity
Came out of heaven to a modern city.

He saw a beggar on the street,
Where the tides of traffic meet.

A pair of brass-bound hickory pegs
Brought him his pence instead of legs.

A murky dog by him did lie,
Poodle, in part, his ancestry.

The angel stood and thought upon
This poodle-haunted beggar man.

“My life is grown a bore,” said he,
“One long round of sciamachy;

I think I'll do a little good,
By way of change from angelhood.”

From the Past and Unavailing
Out of cloudland we are steering:
After groping, after fearing,
Into starlight we come trailing,
And we find the stars are true.
Still, O comrade, what of you?
You are gone, but we are sailing,
And the old ways are all new.

For the Lost and Unreturning
We have drifted, we have waited;
Uncommanded and unrated,
We have tossed and wandered, yearning
For a charm that comes no more
From the old lights by the shore:
We have shamed ourselves in learning
What you knew so long before.

Lord, come away!
Why dost Thou stay?
Thy road is ready; and Thy paths made straight
With longing expectations wait
The consecration of Thy beauteous feet.
Ride on triumphantly; behold, we lay
Our lusts and proud wills in Thy way!

Hosanna! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here
Thou hast a temple too; and full as dear
As that of Sion, and as full of sin:
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein:

Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor:
Crucify them, that they may never more
Profane That holy place

The meteor's arc of quiet; a voiceless rain;
The mist's mute communing with a stagnant moat;
The sigh of a flower that has neglected lain;
That bell's unuttered note:

A hidden self rebels, its slumber broken;
Love secret as crystal forms within the womb;
The heart may as faithfully beat, the vow unspoken;
All sounds to silence come.

Hope, wreathed with roses,
Led sand-blind Despair
To a clear babbling wellspring
And laved his eyes there—
Dark with long brooding
In dungeon-like keep—
Hope laved his eyes,
And he fell fast asleep.

He fell fast asleep
By the willows green-grey,
While the child on his pipes
Piped twilight away.
So that when he awoke
The skies were outspread
With a powder of stars
Strewn in myriads o'erhead.

And Despair lifted up
His gaunt cavernous face;
He said, “I see Suns

There was an Old Person of Florence,
Who held mutton chops in abhorrence;
He purchased a Bustard, and fried him in Mustard,
Which choked that Old Person of Florence.

Than his chaste wife, though Beast now know no more,
He adulters still: his thoughts lie with a whore.

Thou, friend, wilt hear all censures; unto thee
All mouths are open, and all stomachs free:
Be thou my book's intelligencer, note
What each man says of it, and of what coat
His judgement is; if he be wise, and praise,
Thank him: if other, he can give no bays.
If his wit reach no higher, but to spring
Thy wife a fit of laughter; a cramp ring
Will be reward enough: to wear like those,
That hang their richest jewels in their nose;
Like a rung bear, or swine: grunting out wit
As if that part lay for a ( ) most fit!

From death and dark oblivion (near the same)
The mistress of man's life, grave history,
Raising the world to good or evil fame,
Doth vindicate it to eternity.
Wise providence would so; that nor the good
Might be defrauded, nor the great secured,
But both might know their ways were understood,
When vice alike in time with virtue dured.
Which makes that (lighted by the beamy hand
Of truth, that searcheth the most hidden springs,
And guided by experience, whose straight wand
Doth mete, whose line cloth sound the depth of things)