Crown me with Roses whilest I Live,
Now your Wines and Oyntments give.
After Death I nothing crave,
Let me Alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoicks in the Grave.

Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love; nay, fill it up;
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower?

Not Thunders o'er the sea-boy's head,
Whose sounds impetuous roll,
And mark him for a wat'ry bed,
Can shake his stedfast soul.

Still fondly warm'd with patriot fire
He tempts the dang'rous strand,
Still meets aloft the whirlwind's ire,
To guard his native land.

What though beneath the rolling wave
Lies many a dauntless boy,
And many a sailor bold and brave,
The tender fair one's joy;

Though vanquish'd by the billow's pow'r
The valiant yield their breath,
Fame shall record their latest hour,
And bind their brows in death.

Long we'd sought for Avalon,
Avalon the rest place;
Long, long we'd laboured
The oars—yea, for years.

Late, late one eventide
Saw we o'er still waters
Turrets rise and roof-frets
Golden in a glory,
Heard for a heart-beat
Women choirs and harpings
Waft down the wave-ways.

Saw we long-sought Avalon
Sink thro' still waters:
Long, long we'd laboured
The oars—yea, and yearned.

We loved so well in that old time;
But we and Love grew old together:
Old age forgets youth's golden prime
We loved so well in that old time;
But youth and truth it is that rhyme,
And winter follows summer weather.
We loved so well in that old time;
But we and Love grew old together.

S ARED , O God, to Thee,
This home of ours,
Its sunny slopes and fields,
Its peaceful bowers;
Sacred, O God, to Thee,
Thine may it ever be,—
Both Thine and ours.

Here may the children learn
To lisp Thy praise;
Here infant hearts grow strong
In wisdom's ways;
All that is evil spurn,
For all true goodness yearn,—
All to Thy praise.

And let Thy favor rest
On those whose love
Opened this rural home,
Garden, and grove;
As all, the good are blest,
Thy blessing on them rest,
Heaven and love.

After the weeping May,

Man, hef in mind and mend thy mis,
Whil thou are heir in lif livand,
And think apone this warldis blis,
Sa oftsyis is variand.
For Fortonis wheill is ay turnand,
Whil to weil and whil to wa,
Whil oup, whil downe, I onderstand—
Memor esto novissima.

Thou seis thy sampil everilk day,
And thou tak heid, withouten les,
How sone that thou may pas away:
For bald Hector and Achilles,
And Alexander the proud in pres,
Hes tane thare leif, and mony ma,
That Ded hes drawene onetil his des—
Memor esto novissima.

Thidder thou com, nakit and bair,

In my tired, helpless body
I feel my sunk heart ache;
But suddenly, loudly
The far, the great guns shake.

Is it sudden terror
Burdens my heart? My hand
Flies to my head. I listen …
And do not understand.

Is death so near, then?
From this blaze of light
Do I plunge suddenly
Into Vortex? Night?

Guns again! the quiet
Shakes at the vengeful voice. . . .
It is terrible pleasure.
I do not fear: I rejoice.

This year the grain is heavy-ripe;
The apple shows a ruddier stripe;
Never berries so profuse
Blackened with so sweet a juice
On brambly hedges, summer-dyed.
The yellow leaves begin to glide;
But Earth in careless lap-ful treasures
Pledge of over-brimming measures,
As if some rich unwonted zest
Stirred prodigal within her breast.
And now, while plenty's left uncared,
The fruit unplucked, the sickle spared,
Where men go forth to waste and spill,
Toiling to burn, destroy and kill,
Lo, also side by side with these
Beast-hungers, ravening miseries,

He asked a priest, “Do you believe all true
You teach the people?” “Oh, dear, no!” said he:
“But then 'twould never do to speak, you see;
For, though we don't believe, the people do!”

He asked one of these people what he thought:
“Do you believe all priests say, to the letter?”
“Oh, no! we are not fools; and we know better.
The priests believe, for that is all they're taught!”