English

My wife and I lived all alone,
contention was our only bone.
I fought with her, she fought with me,
and things went on right merrily.

But now I live here by myself
with hardly a damn thing on the shelf,
and pass my days with little cheer
since I have parted from my dear.

Oh come home soon, I write to her.
Go screw yourself, is her answer.
Now what is that, for Christian word?
I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.

But still I love her, yes I do.
I love her and the children too.

Love's kisses spurned so long ago,
Dead as the years, that o'er them flow;—
And now, my gilded treasuries
Would I might give—for memories.

Childe Watters in his stable stoode,
And stroaket his milke-white steede;
To him there came a ffaire young ladye
As ere did weare womans weede.

Saies, "Christ you save, good Chyld Waters!'
Sayes, "Christ you save and see!
My girdle of gold, which was too longe,
Is now to short for mee.

"And all is with one chyld of yours,
I feele sturre att my side;
My gowne of greene, it is to strayght;
Before it was to wide.'

"If the child be mine, Faire Ellen,' he sayd,
"Be mine, as you tell mee,

But now
From the brow
Of old Skiddaw, high-perched
On the last of the cairns,
Myself and my bairns,
We searched
For our sweetest of sweet little Hesperids;
And our lids
Were stung
By the “saut”
Sharp slung
From the wall
Of a squall,
That wrought,
And blurred,
And slurred
The air
Out there,
So that naught
Of our Isle,
The while,
Could we see,
But a film of the faintest ivory.
Just half-way down the slope we sit,—
When, suddenly, the sky is lit—

Ye wakeful stars, to you I never breathed it,
To thee, all-seeing sun, no whisper came:
About my heart in silence I enwreathed it,
That fairest flower of all things fair—her name.

Yet one star to another repeats my story,
When darkling night sheds down her welcome boon:
And lo, the great sun, when he sinks in glory,
Murmurs my secret to the silver moon.

The shady hills and joyful meadows know it,
'Tis told bYevery tree to every flower:
The birds fly past me singing: ‘Gloomy poet,

Her hair is yellow as sulphur, and her gaze
As brimstone burning blue and odorous:
I know not how her eyes came to be thus
But I do think her soul must be ablaze:
Their pupils wane or wax to blame or praise;
As a cat watches mice, she watches us;
And I am sure her claws are murderous,
So feline are her velvet coaxing ways.
She purrs like a young leopard soothed and pleased
At flattery; so too turns and snarls when teased,
And pats her love like a beast of prey.
I fancy too that over wine and food

My Fancy loves to play with Clouds
That hour by hour can change Heaven's face;
For I am sure of my delight,
In green or stony place.

Sometimes they on tall mountains pile
Mountains of silver, twice as high;
And then they break and lie like rocks
All over the wide sky.

And then I see flocks very fair;
And sometimes, near their fleeces white,
Are small black lambs that soon will grow
And hide their mothers quite.

Sometimes, like little fishes, they
Are all one size, and one great shoal;

There are strange shadows fostered of the moon,
More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day . . .
Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June,
Into the dusk of swooping bats at play;
Or go into that late November dusk
When hills take on the noble lines of death,
And on the air the faint, astringent musk
Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath.
Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun,
Knows nothing—aye, a thousand shadows there
Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run,
Like petrels of the changing foul or fair;

Ah, you night, you little night!
Ah, you night, you stormy night!
Why from early evening tide
Even to the midnight late
Twinkle not your little stars,
Shineth not your full-orbed moon?
You are veiled with darkling clouds!
'T is with you, I think, O night,
Even as with me, young man,—
Villain grief has called on us!
When the dire one takes abode
Somewhere deep within the heart,—
You forget the lasses fair,
Dances and obeisances;
You forget from evening tide
Even to the midnight late,

“A T last you come, my fellow of the seas,
For whom I've waited long! Your hand.
Now, please
To sit while we like kinsfolk here recite
High-colored happenings by day and night,
Whether in Polynesian waters, or
Beyond Malayan lands, with sail and oar
Gladly adventured under sun and stars …
How oft we steered beneath uneasy spars!

“Little we dreamed to greet and talk it all
In this snug haven. … So the fates should fall,
Since we were cronies in the crescent will
To know the soul of man through good and ill,