English

I Stript of Earthly Comforts am;
Stript, Lett me duely mourn:
Naked from Earth at first I came,
And Naked I Return.
What, but Gifts from above were They?
GOD gave them unto me.
And now they Take their Flight away,
Taken by GOD they be.
The Name of my Great GOD, I will
Forever then Adore;
Hee's Wise, and Just, and Sovereign Still,
And Good forevermore.

I am on leave of absence, I am allowed the sweet furlough,
Given by consent of life from one life to another,
Crossing all abysses of time and space to arrive on this recent globe

My ancestors sent me out of the world of their peace to plead their case with the present
I can go and stay: but I cannot go where they are not or stay where they are not.
They send me as their singer to tell their story of sacrifice,
They send me as their envoy from immortal nowheres visiting the secular earth.

The roots of grasses
And of trees from foreign lands
With us shall flourish,
When with fost'ring care we tend
Daily the gardens of Japan.

I'm only a Gargoyle attached to a church,
As ugly a Gargoyle as ever was known;
I lean from my Gothic, aerial perch
To gaze on that glorious vision in stone,—

The fair Caryatid just over the street
Enthroned on a pillar of porphyry red,
So mild of demeanor, so patient and sweet,
Though seventeen stories are heaped on her head!

I envy the wind that may speak to my love,
The raindrop that plashes her cheek like a tear,
The cobweb that covers her hand like a glove,
The sparrow that builds in the curve of her ear.

Not , “Is it Old or is it New?”
But, “Is it False or is it True?”

Hail not the New as True While Proof is meager.
Be Willing to Believe, but not Too Eager.

S EEK All the Truth lest Error seize you;
Fear not the Truth that does not please you.

B ELIEVE what you have Proved. They most deceive
Themselves who try to Prove what they Believe.

A DMITTING you don't know, is going
The First Step on the Road to Knowing.

The Muse, a shameless mercenary jade!
Has now assum'd the arch-tongued lawyer's trade:
In W OLFE 's deserving praises silent she,
Till flatter'd with the prospect of a fee.

Gently I stir a white feather fan,
With open shirt sitting in a green wood.
I take off my cap and hang it on a jutting stone;
A wind from the pine-trees trickles on my bare head.

Dear foe, I know thou 'lt win the fight.
I know thou hast the stronger bark,
And thou art sailing in the light,
While I am creeping in the dark.
Thou dost not dream that I am crying,
As I come up with colors flying.

I clear away my wounded, slain,
With strength like frenzy, strong and swift;
I do not feel the tug and strain,
Though dead are heavy, hard to lift.
If I looked in their faces dying,
I could not keep my colors flying.

Dear foe, it will be short,—our fight,—
Though lazily thou train'st thy guns;

Between the two gold
vases of Bermuda lilies
go the egg-shaped

feelings of a man
fearing son and whore,
feeling his heart

peeled from its mesentery,
washing and beating
on a board between the organ

and the bride's gown,
his memory touched
with invitation and ideal.

Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
As full of gracious youth and beauty still
As the immortal freshness of that grace
Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze.

A youth named Rhœcus, wandering in the wood,
Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall,
And, feeling pity of so fair a tree,
He propped its gray trunk with admiring care,
And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on.
But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind
That murmured “Rhœcus!” 'T was as if the leaves,
Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it,