A is for [Acland], who'd physic the Masses,
B is for [Brodie], who swears by the gases.
C is for [Conington], constant to Horace.
D is for [Donkin], who integrates for us.
E is for [Evans], with rifle well steadied.
F is for [Freeman], Examiner dreaded!
G's [Goldwin Smith], by the “Saturday” quoted,
H is for [Heurtley], to “Margaret” devoted.
I am the Author, a rhymer erratic—
J is for [Jowett], who lectures in Attic:
K is for [Kitchen], than attic much warmer.
L is for [Liddell], relentless reformer!
M is for [Mansel], our Logic-provider,

Shrieks out of smoke, a flame of dung-straw fire
That is not quenched but hath for only fruit
What writhes and dies not in its rotten root:
Two things made flesh, the visible desire
To match in filth the skunk, the ape in ire,
Mouthing before the mirrors with wild foot
Beyond all feebler footprint of pursuit,
The perfect twanger of the Chinese lyre!
A heart with generous virtues run to seed
In vices making all a jumbled creed:
A soul that knows not love nor trust nor shame,
But cuts itself with knives to bawl and bleed—

Give me, maids, deep draughts of wine
For exhausted with the heat
I am gasping; of flowers sweet
Round my temples fresh wreaths twine.

For the garlands I wear now.
Scorched are by my burning brow.
But Love's fires, O heart, in you
How, ye gods, can I subdue?

A fairy and a robin met
Beside a bed of mignonette.
The robin bowed and raised his hat,
And smiled a smile as wide as—that—
Then said: “Miss Fairy, I declare,
I'd kiss you, only I don't dare.”

The fairy curtsied low and said:
“Your breast is such a lovely red,
And you are such a handsome thing,
And, oh, such pretty songs you sing—
I'd gladly kiss you now, but I
May only kiss a butterfly.”

The robin spoke a silly word:
“I'm sorry I was born a bird!
Were I a fairy-man instead,
Then you and I might some day wed.”

——Prithee, say aye or no;
If thou 'lt not have me, tell me so;
———I cannot stay,
——Nor will I wait upon
———A smile or frown.
——If thou wilt have me, say;
Then I am thine, or else I am mine own.

——Be white or black; I hate
Dependence on a checkered fate;
———Let go, or hold;
——Come, either kiss or not:
———Now to be hot,
——And then again as cold,
Is a fantastic fever you have got.

——A tedious woo is base,
And worse by far than a long grace:
———For whilst we stay,
——Our lingering spoils the roast,
———Or stomach 's lost;

O Sat Guru, make keen my understanding.
When I would dwell at home, I am not suffered there: those of my own house cast me forth.
If I go forth, that witch fastens upon me: she hears and at once would slay my soul.
Make it so keen O my Master, that wherever I strike, it may spear through and through.
On Dharm Das show mercy, O Lord Kabir, Destroyer of all ills.

WHEN , by a sudden act of guilt,
The hands of men their blood have spilt,
We pierce with stakes the murder'd frame,
And cover it with marks of shame;
But overlook the Suicide
Of a miscalculated pride,
Which courts the mist that clouds the day,
And throws the light of joy away;
Nor deem the character impair'd,
Of lingering death-beds ill-prepar'd;
Nor brand the dissipated mind,
Which is to all reflection blind;
And, as if piqued at life's delay,
Kills with impertinence the day!

There is castle by the Eastern Sea
Where once a mirage used to play.
Japanese soldiers came,
Torches were burnt in the forest.

When knights visited this mountain,
The moon marked its westerly course,
And a star was about to sweep a path,
Someone said, “Look, there is a comet!”

Ah, the moon has already departed.
Now, where shall we look for the long-tailed star?

We all are little infants
As far as I can see.
Romping and sprawling all about
One painted Nursery.

We all of us have small ideas
Of what is wrong and right
And sometimes we dispute our views
—and sometimes even fight.

Some tie gold paper round our heads
And play at being kings
And others sit against the wall
And think of serious things.

We are not always very good
We strut and shriek a lot.
We have our games they all must have
And toys that they must not.

But still we are not very bad,
We own a generous spark.

Her mind's a shallow bowl
Round which in naked light
The homeless goldfish glance
Like flame in all men's sight.

Dazzled I watch, then turn
Home-coming to the cool
Star-haunted secrecies
Of the dream-shadowed pool.