English

The winds are out in the abysm of night;
The blown trees stoop.
But man invented fire and candle-light,
And man invented soup.

OH, THE COMFORT —the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person,
Having neither to weigh thoughts,
Nor measure words—but pouring them
All right out—just as they are—
Chaff and grain together—
Certain that a faithful hand will
Take and sift them—
Keep what is worth keeping—
And with the breath of kindness
Blow the rest away.

I know an isle in the desert sea,
Where many a time I long to be.
Like a child in its mother's lap it lies,
Basking beneath the tropic skies;
While the fondling waves that round it creep
Seem hushing the innocent to sleep:
And nothing is there to break its rest;
Only the breeze from the sighing West
Comes lifting among its shrubs, and weaves
A whispering spirit through its leaves.

O never comes summer with its steady breeze
And sunny skies, but the deep blue seas
Come over my heart, and sweep away

Hie me now, and give me rest
In great fields by Summer drest;
Where the moist pea-bloom is seen
Smiling on the tender bean;
Where the corn unfolds its silk,
And unhoards earth's balmy milk;
Or where stand the oaten leaves,
Dreaming of the autumn sheaves;
Or where lovingly entwine
The vetchling and the sweet woodbine.
Or let me entrancèd go
Where the heavy hautboys grow,
And receive the first impress
Of the summer's fruitfulness.

Urged by silver-footed June,
Summer dons her flowery shoon,

What! want to be buggered, and cry when it's done!
Here clear contradictions seem blended!
Do you grieve that the sodding was ever begun,
Or lament that the pleasure is ended?

A Friendly party, of one mind,
Were for a pleasure-day inclin'd,
Forsook their beds on Thursday morn,
When each their person did adorn
With raiment proper for the day,
And in high spirits drove away.
The morn did a bad day portend,
Bid some unwelcome show'rs descend:
But sable clouds now disappear,
And azure decks the atmosphere;
Phœbus expands his golden rays,
And all the rural sweets displays;
And that my friend the whole may know,
We to a place call'd I THCEN go;
Where with an honest batchelor,

If I live all my days by routine,
Keeping days ordered and ways clean,
Will there be room for Love in my life?
Love who is born in storm, and lives in strife.

Entire, more than entire have we been devastated!
The maddened clarion, the bold invaders' horde,
The mortar thunder-voiced, the blood-anointed sword
Have all men's sweat and work and store annihilated.

The towers stand in flames, the church is violated,
The strong are massacred, a ruin our council board,
Our maidens raped, and where my eyes have scarce explored
Fire, pestilence, and death my heart have dominated.

Here through the moat and town runs always new-let blood,
And for three-times-six years our very rivers' flood

God heareth prayer—whether in secret place
Or in his sacred courts it matters not.
Where two or three are gathered in his name,
There will he deign to meet them and to bless.
God heareth prayer;—Oh! thou desponding one,
When dark temptation's cloud o'erspreads thy soul,
Turn from the busy and the giddy throng,
Haste thou to nature's solitude—commune
With thy own heart, and humbly bend thy knee,
For in that hour, thy God will hear thy prayer.
It was the close of summer, yet the breeze
Went idly by as if it feared to break

Dowered with the wealth of Ophir,
Reared on costly caviare,
Driven by a foreign chauffeur
In a spacious Siddeley car,
Luckless little Thompson minor
Would have paid a handsome cheque
For a mother to entwine her
Loving arms about his neck!
Though the motor's speed is greater,
Thompson much prefers “the mater!”

Long ago, with eyes all shiny,
She had asked, in tender tone:
“Would you like a little tiny
Baby-sister of your own?”
Now it stung him like a blister
That he'd answered: “I should like,