If the Soufi drink with measure, Sweet to him its zest still be!
Else the thought thereof forgotten Of the wight were best still be.

And that one who on his fellows Can a single draught bestow,
May the loveling of his wishes To his bosom prest still be!

Quoth our elder, “Nought of error Can Creation's pen betide.”
May the insight of that pure one, Error-cov'ring, blest still be!

To the enemies' suggestion Hearkened erst the Turkman king:
Siyawésh's blood, the guiltless, Of his shame attest still be!

Nat Jones had been a-readin' 'bout the novelists of late
That made enough to corner half the country's real estate;
'Bout the hundred thousand copies that the sufferin' public took,
An' says he: “I've 'bout decided I wuz born to write a book!

“It 'll help to paint the homestead, send the children all to school,
Buy Sally a pianner, take the mortgage off the mule.
Too long I've hid my talents, jest encumberin' the groun'
They'll be runnin' me fer congress ef I keep a-loafin' 'roun'!”

So, without no more considerin', says he: “I'll jest begin.”

Would you know the Forest's Deeper Joys?
Camp beneath the Stars that make no Noise.

Use little Chips and Twigs to start the Fire
And Great Logs only when the Flame leaps higher.

T HE Camper-out who hopes to have his Share
Of Sleep at Night, should make his Bed with Care.

T HE Faithful Lover of the Woods remembers
To clean his Camp and quench the Campfire's Embers.

B EFORE you leave the Camp that gave you Rest,
Pile up more Wood to warm the Coming Guest.

“Whose pretty pawn is this
And what shall be done to redeem it?”
C HILDREN'S Game

I am immoderately fond of this place.
My thoughts run under it like the roots of trees and grasses,
They spread above it like fluttering, inconsequential leaves.
Spring comes to me with the blossoming of the snow-drop under the arbor-vitae.
So all Springs come, and ever must do.
Spring ripens with the crocus cups on the South lawn,
Blue and white crocuses, remains of an ancient garden,
By the side of an ancient house—
So they told me, so I believed.

There was a fause knicht in the court,
And he was fu o treacherie,
And he staw the queen's jewels in the nicht,
And left the wyte on Jamie O'Lee.

The king he wrate a braid letter,
And sealed it richt tenderlie,
And he sent it to his only son,
To come and speak to him speedilie.

When he cam afore the king,
He kneeled low down on his knee:
‘What is your will, my sovereign leige?
What is your will? cum tell to me.’

‘Jamie O'Lee has my jewels stown,
As the English lord tells unto me,
And out o Scotland he shall be sent,

'T IS Sabbath morn, and a holy balm
Drops down on the heart like dew,
And the sunbeam's gleam like a blessèd dream
Afar on the mountains blue.
Old Hannah's by her cottage door,
In her faded widow's cap;
She is sitting alone on the old grey stone,
With the Bible in her lap.

An oak is hanging above her head,
And the burn is wimpling by;
The primroses peep from their sylvan keep,
And the lark is in the sky.
Beneath that shade her children played,
But they're all away with Death,
And she sits alone on the old grey stone

The young, the lovely, pass away,
Ne'er to be seen again;
Earth's fairest flowers too soon decay;
Its blasted trees remain.

Full oft, we see the brightest thing
That lifts its head on high,
Smile in the light, then droop its wing,
And fade away, and die.

And kindly is the lesson given;
Then dry the falling tear:
They came to raise our hearts to Heaven;
They go to call us there.

STRONG in thy steadfast purpose, be
Like some brave master of the sea,
Whose keel, by Titan pulses quickened, knows
His will where'er he goes.
Some isle, palm-roofed, in spiced Pacific air
He seeks—though solitary zones apart,
Its place long fixed on his deep-studied chart.
Fierce winds, your wild confusion make!
Waves, wroth with tide and tempest, shake
His iron-wrought hull aside!
However driven, to that far island fair
(His compass not more faithful than his heart)
He makes his path the ocean wide—
His prow is always there!

The women all tell me I'm false to my lass,
That I quit my poor Chloe and stick to my glass:
But to you men of Reason, my reasons I'll own,
And if you don't like them why let them alone.

Altho' I have left her, the truth I'll declare,
I believe she was good, and I'm sure she was fair;
But goodness and charms in a bumper I see,
That makes it as good and as charming as she.

My Chloe had dimples and smiles I must own,
But tho' she could smile, yet in truth she could frown;
But tell me, ye lovers of liquor divine,

In shadows
deep
stand pines
that through
countless ages
dropped needles
numberless,
leaving a courtyard
thick with dust
I pray
the wind
not to sweep away.