Must my songs be sung for ever
In this high and earnest strain?
Must the field of grace and beauty
Hence for aye untilled remain?

When the axe has cleared the forest,
When the swamps are drained away,
Then the eye with tranquil pleasure
Views the sun's unclouded ray.

Since I have felt the sense of death,
Since I have borne its dread, its fear—
Oh, how my life has grown more dear
Since I have felt the sense of death!
Sorrows are good, and cares are small,
Since I have known the loss of all.

Since I have felt the sense of death,
And death forever at my side—
Oh, how the world has opened wide
Since I have felt the sense of death!
My hours are jewels that I spend,
For I have seen the hours end.

Since I have felt the sense of death,
Since I have looked on that black night—

A pair of parent swallows sweep in the blinds,
and I wake from nap dreams in the slow afternoon.
Perspiration moistening the collar, beads of sweat on skin,
dislodged hairpin tangled in side-locks, ample hair droops.
The stitching by the window I'm too languid to resume,
no desire to open a book half read and put away.
Day-lily flowers fragrant outside the railing,
I flutter my silk fan quietly, standing in idleness.

High as the heav'ns above the ground,
Reigns the Creator, God;
Wide as the whole creation's bound,
Extends his awful rod.

Let princes of exalted state
To him ascribe their crown;
Render their homage at his feet,
And cast their glories down.

Know that his kingdom is supreme,
Your lofty thoughts are vain;
He calls you gods—that awful name,—
But ye must die like men.

Then let the sov'reigns of the globe
Not dare to vex the just;
He puts on vengeance like a robe,
And treads the worms to dust.

Joy-throats dilate in the woods;
The meadows are blithe with their cheer,
But in all the bliss of the singing birds,
One voice I hear.

I listen among the trees;
It sings while the breeze rushes on,
And ever it tells in the moaning seas
Of days that are gone.

It was at Tunis, in the shop
I told you of, where women stop,
And falls the perfume, drop by drop,
That first he came,
Who in my own flesh clotheth him,
And drugs my soul with memories dim,
And fills my body to the brim,
A perfumed flame.

I know new meanings in the rose,
Old chennels in my sense unclose,
Along my nerves the music goes
Of ancient time;
And I am changed to what has been,—
Silk-robed, and turbaned with the green,
I try the thin edge damascene
Of secret crime.
To leaner sheaths my spirit shrinks,

“Ding a ding,”
The sweet bells sing,
And say:
“Come, all be gay”
For a wedding day.

“Dong a dong,”
The bells sigh long,
And call:
“Weep one, weep all”
For a funeral.

Why'n't you bring me
a good letter? One with
lots of money in it.
I could make use of that.
Atta boy! Atta boy!

The tall yellow hollyhocks stand,
Still and straight,
With their round blossoms spread open,
In the quiet sunshine.
And still is the old Roman wall,
Rough with jagged bits of flint,
And jutting stones,
Old and cragged,
Quite still in its antiquity.
The pear-trees press their branches against it,
And feeling it warm and kindly,
The little pears ripen to yellow and red.
They hang heavy, bursting with juice,
Against the wall.
So old, so still!
The sky is still.
The clouds make no sound
As they slide away
Beyond the Cathedral Tower,

“There's been an accident,” they said.
“Your servant's cut in half; he's dead.”
“Too bad,” said Mr. Jones, “but please
Send me the half that's got my keys.”