A cooperative council was going to be set up
to convey people's wishes upward, I was told.
A man whom I had long respected came one night,
talked at length about the faults of the nation as it was,
and told me to become a member.
It wasn't an age when one could be surprised at abruptness.
If people's wishes could be conveyed upward,
I had a mountain of things I wanted conveyed upward.
In the end I became a member.
Once it begins to turn,
all the cogs move, like it or not.
Would people's wishes brought in by individuals
be conveyed upward?

A LAS for the voyage, O High King of Heaven,
Enjoined upon me,
For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin
Was present to see.

How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow
For him is designed,
He is having, this hour, round his own hill in Durrow,
The wish of his mind.

The sounds of the winds in the elms, like strings of
A harp being played,
The note of a blackbird that claps with the wings of
Delight in the shade.

With him in Ros-Grencha the cattle are lowing
At earliest dawn,
On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing

There lived an old man in the Kingdom of Tess,
Who invented a purely original dress;
And when it was perfectly made and complete,
He opened the door, and walked into the street.

By way of a hat, he'd a loaf of Brown Bread,
In the middle of which he inserted his head;--
His Shirt was made up of no end of dead Mice,
The warmth of whose skins was quite fluffy and nice;--
His Drawers were of Rabbit-skins;--so were his Shoes;--
His Stockings were skins,--but it is not known whose;--
His Waistcoat and Trowsers were made of Pork Chops;--

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale!
"Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu," she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.

Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
Cuckoo--to welcome in the spring!
Cuckoo--to welcome in the spring!

Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses, Cupid paid;
He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
His mother's doves, and team of sparrows;
Loses them too; then, down he throws
The coral of his lip, the rose
Growing on's cheek (but none knows how);

With these, the crystal of his brow,
And then the dimple of his chin:
All these did my Campaspe win
At last, he set her both his eyes;
She won, and Cupid blind did rise. Fr. III,v
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall (alas!) become of me?

Instead of tears my eyes have stones
In them; tears can become as hard;
I have had tears enough and groans
Enough: a wounded animal moans
A little, then is on his guard.

Now I can think of you without
Love, without hate; I can think
Steadily about such things; about
Things like stones that leave no doubt;
Dark earth and water cool to drink.

I am like a child to whom
Accustomed curves and edges mean
What to an invalid his room
And the sweet regulated gloom
And the implicit soft routine

These reassure and satisfy

If the oak is out before the ash,
Then we'll only have a splash;
If the ash is out before the oak,
Then we'll surely have a soak.

What I dreamed would be so strange to know—
Familiar;
As night or noon.

What I thought would be such fearsome giving—
Simple;
Like lifting a cup for a child to drink.

I imagined it would be terrible to take;
And I received it merrily;
Expectation saved up through years and long years
Slipped by in a breath.

It is so still in the house.
There is a calm in the house;
The snowstorm wails out there,
And the dogs are rolled up with snouts under the tail.
My little boy is sleeping on the ledge,
On his back he lies, breathing through his open mouth.
His little stomach is bulging round--
Is it strange if I start to cry with joy?

Once when you walked through the spring
Birds had a swifter note,
And every flowered thing
Seemed quivering at your throat.

What is your April now
But time when leaves are new,
Spurting from every bough
With sunlight showing through?

And yet this much is good:
Knowing their powdery death
All leaves must serve your mood,
And none can hurt your breath.