Is it not sweet to die? for, what is death,
But sighing that we ne'er may sigh again,
Getting a length beyond our tedious selves;
But trampling the last tear from poisonous sorrow,
Spilling our woes, crushing our frozen hopes,
And passing like an incense out of man?
Then, if the body felt, what were its sense,
Turning to daisies gently in the grave,
If not the soul's most delicate delight
When it does filtrate, through the pores of thought,
In love and the enamelled flowers of song?

'Tis good to keep hinderward eyes
For the lessons in paths we have trod;
'Tis good to be wary & wise,
—Why linger so long on the way?
All that is no more than to say—
'Tis good to be Clodd!

The Buddha, with head like the crown
Of an infant or pea in a pod,
Immersed in the study hued brown;
Uprises at length on a start,
Nirvana rejects from his heart—
‘I'd rather be Clodd!’

Push back the curtains and fling wide the door;
Shut not away the light nor the sweet air,
Let the checked sunbeams play upon the floor,
And on my head low bowed, and on my hair.

Would I could sing, in words of melody,
The hazy sweetness of this wondrous time!
Low would I pitch my voice: The song should be
A soft, low chant, set to a dreamy rhyme.

No loud, high notes for tender days like these!
No trumpet tones, no swelling words of pride,
Beneath these skies, so like dim summer seas,
Where hazy ships of clouds at anchor ride.

How hardly I conceal'd my Tears?
How oft did I complain?
When many tedious Days my Fears
Told me I Lov'd in vain.

But now my Joys as wild are grown,
And hard to be conceal'd:
Sorrow may make a silent Moan,
But Joy will be reveal'd.

I tell it to the Bleating Flocks,
To every Stream and Tree,
And Bless the Hollow Murmuring Rocks,
For Echoing back to me.

Thus you may see with how much Joy
We Want, we Wish, Believe;
'Tis hard such Passion to Destroy,
But easie to Deceive.

O Griefe, how divers are thy shapes wherein men languish!
The face sometime with teares thou fil'st,
Sometime the hart thou kill'st
With unseene anguish.
Sometime thou smil'st to view how Fate
Playes with our humane state:
So farre from surety here
Are all our earthly joyes,
That what our strong hope buildes, when least wee feare,
A stronger power destroyes.

O Fate, why shouldst thou take from KINGS their joy and treasure?
Their Image if men should deface,
'Twere death, which thou dost race
Even at thy pleasure.

On a time the amorous Silvy
Said to her shepherd, ‘Sweet, how do you?
Kiss me this once, and then God b' wi' you,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then God b' wi' you,
For now the morning draweth near.’

With that, her fairest bosom showing,
Opening her lips, rich perfumes blowing,
She said, ‘Now kiss me and be going,
My sweetest dear!
Kiss me this once and then be going,
For now the morning draweth near.’

With that the shepherd waked from sleeping,
And, spying where the day was peeping,
He said, ‘Now take my soul in keeping,

One morn I rose and looked upon the world.
“Have I been blind until this hour?” I said.
On every trembling leaf the sun had spread,
And was like golden tapestry unfurled;
And as the moments passed more light was hurled
Upon the drinking earth athirst for light;
And I, beholding all this wondrous sight,
Cried out aloud, “O God, I love Thy world!”
And since that waking, often I drink deep
The joy of dawn, and peace abides with me;
And though I know that I again shall see
Dark fear with withered hand approach my sleep,

In meine fieberdige Finger zappelt sich die Welt,
Ich bin a Netz vun Droten,
A Puls vun toisend Pulsen,
A Seismograf vun Welt's Gelaf.
In Misroch-Land geht oif in mir die Sunn,
In Maarew-Land vergeht in mir die Sunn,
Marocco sturemt meine Festungen,
An Uragan macht chorew meine twujedige Felder,
Oif Broome Street vergeh ich in Flammen,
Der schwarzer Hudson schleppt mich zu sein Grund,

Die Welt zind ich in Fajer vun Meride,
Mit Brusten nackete, zewundigte,
Mit Oigen hungerige, Foisten flammige
Oif satte Welten geh ich—

This is the way we wash our clothes,
Rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub!
Watch them getting clean and white,
Rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub!

This is the way we mangle them,
Rumble-de-dee, rumble-de-dee!
Round and round the handle goes,
Rumble-de-dee, rumble-de-dee!

This is the way we hang them out,
Flippity-flap, flippity-flap!
See them blowing in the wind,
Flippity-flap, flippity-flap!

This is the way we iron them
Smooth as smooth can be!
Soon our wash-day will be done,
Then we'll all have tea.

We saw three boys
Who came down
The cleft of a brow on our left;
One carried a fishing-rod,
And the hats of all
Were braided with honeysuckles;
They ran after one another
As wanton as the wind.

They went to school
And learned Latin, Virgil,
And one of them, Greek, Homer,
But when Coleridge began to inquire further,