The first created pair possessed a world
Where darkness was unknown;
Till Yama died, and left in endless light
Yami, his twin, alone.

The high Gods tried to comfort her distress,
But all in vain they tried.
She would not listen to their wisest words;
She said: ‘Today he died.’

Then were the Gods confounded, for her grief
Troubled their equal sight;
They said: ‘In this way she will not forget.
We must create the Night.’

So they created Night. And after Night
Came into being Morrow;
And she forgot him. Thus it is they say:

A BLOSSOM pink, a blossom blue,
Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part—
The emblem of my wooing heart!

Not with ware of worth unladen,
Sailed my bark in days of yore,
When, seafarer bound for Aidenn,
By the singing siren-maiden
Tempted, I forsook the shore.

Waning day departed, wailing
Wild with rush of wind and rain;
Stress of storm and surge prevailing
Scourged the skiff and marred the sailing;
So to port we sped amain.

Much I mused, misdoubting whether
More to fare on fickle sea;
Sunny blaze and sullen weather,
Breath of breeze and blast together,
Chain as charm had woven for me.

But pure heaven with shadeless pleasure

There is a restless mortal who
Feeds on himself, and eats for two.
Heartburn all day and night he feels
And never tries to walk but reels.
Boy! on the table set the taper
And bring your lucifer; this paper
I must without delay set fire on
Or folks may fancy I mean Byron.
Be petty larcenies forgiven,
The fire he stole was not from heaven.

The station platform, clean and broad, his stage
for push-ups, sit-ups, hamstring stretch,
as he laid aside his back pack, from which
his necessaries bulged, as he bulged
through jeans torn at butt, knee and thigh,
in deep palaver with himself—sigh,
chatter, groan. Deranged but common.
We sat at a careful distance to spy
on his performance, beside a woman
in her thirties, dressed as in her teens—
this is L.A.—singing to herself.
How composed, complete and sane
she seemed. A book by the Dalai Lama
in her hands, her face where pain and wrong

Vainly , ye libellers! your page
Assaults and vilifies old age,
'Tis still life's golden æra;
Its pleasures, wisely understood,
An unalloy'd unfailing good,
Its evils a chimæra—

Time's victim, I am victor still,—
Holding the privilege at will
To seize him by the forelock;
On me would he return the grasp,
He finds there's nothing left to clasp—
Not e'en a single hoar lock.—

We blame th' idolatrous divine
Who gilds and decorates his shrine,
The Deity neglected;
Yet our self-adoration blind
Is body-worship—to the mind

Lyke as the armed knyght
Appoynted to the fielde
With thys world wyll I fyght
And fayth shall be my shielde.
faythe is that weapon stronge
Whych wyll not fayle at nede
My foes therfor amonge
Therwith wyll I procede.
As it is had in strengthe
And force of Christes waye
It wyll prevayle at lengthe
Though all the devyls saye naye.
faythe in the fathers olde
Obtayned ryghtwysnesse
Which make me verye bolde.
To feare no worldes dystresse.
I now rejoyce in hart
And hope byd me do so
For Christ wyll take my part
And ease me of my wo.

Here rests a Pattern of the Female Life,
The Woman, Friend, the Mother, and the Wife.
A Woman form'd by Nature, more than Art,
With smiling Ease to gain upon the Heart.
A Friend as true as Guardian-Angels are,
Kindness her Law, Humanity her Care.
A Mother sweetly tender, justly dear,
Oh! never to be nam'd without a Tear.
A Wife of every social Charm possest,
Blessing her Husbands—In her Husbands blest.
Love in her Heart, Compassion in her Eyes,
Her Thoughts as humble, as her Virtues high.
Her Knowledge useful, nor too high, nor low,

My Chinese uncle, gouty, deaf, half-blinded,
And more than a trifle absent-minded,
Astonished all St James's Square one day
By giving long and unexceptionably exact directions
To a little coolie girl, who'd lost her way.

She gave her body for my meat,
Her soul to be my wine,
And prayed that I be made complete
In sunlight and starshine.

With such abandoned grace she gave
Of all that passion taught her,
She never knew her tidal wave
Cast bread on stagnant water.