English

I FEEL polite, outside the door;
But when it should begin,
I can't remember Not to ask
If just their Cat is in.

And if the Sun should sprinkle through
Along the floor that way,
I can't remember what I do
If I am Urged to Stay.

And when I've shaken hands all round,
—No matter how I try,
I can't remember Not to go
And Kiss their Dog good-by,
—Good-by,
—Good-by!

Yes, thank you, please.—They're Very Well;
—I think I'd better go.
Yes, thank you, please. I'm always late;

No fear of death, or life, again shall pass
Along these quivering fields of April grass,
Where, under quiet, ever holier skies
Sorrow keeps watch with glad, immortal eyes.

You ask why can't Clarissa hold her tongue.
Because she fears her fingers will be stung.

Of virtues I most warmly bless,
Most rarely see, Unselfishness.
And to put graver sins aside
I own a preference for Pride.

The waving yew or cypress wreath
In vain bequeathe the mighty tear;
In vain the awful pomp of death
Attends the sable-shrouded bier.

Since Strephon's virtue's sunk to rest,
Nor pity's sigh nor sorrow's strain,
Nor magic tongue, have e'er confest
Our wounded bosom's secret pain.

The just, the good, more honours share
In what the conscious heart bestows,
Than voice adorn'd with sculptor's care,
In all the venal pomp of woes.

A sad-ey'd mourner at his tomb,
Thou, Friendship! pay thy rites divine,

The daylight fades behind the Western Mountains,
And in the east is seen the rising moon,
Which faintly mirrored in the garden fountains
Foretells that night and dreams are coming soon.

With window open—hair unloosed and flowing,
I lie in restful ease upon my bed;
The evening breeze across the lilies blowing
With fragrant coolness falls upon my head.

And in the solemn stillness—all-prevailing,
The fall of dewdrops from the tall bamboos—
Which grow in graceful rows along the railing—

The wind is low in air,
And shakes the box-tree bare
Of spice, long hoarded there;
Cut black against the orange sky,
Two neighbors hurry by.

The door's ajar. I see
The table set for me,
My mother in her chair
Ready to say the prayer.

In journeyings to and fro
Our poor wild lives do go—
Then wind, scent, flare of sky,
The cool of evening nigh;
Roof, loaf, the fond word said—
Then afterward to bed.

God knows all things—but we
In darkness walk our ways;
We wonder what will be,
We ask the nights and days.

Their lips are sealed; at times
The bards, like prophets, see,
And rays rush o'er their rhymes
From suns of “days to be”.

They see To-morrow's heart,
They read To-morrow's face,
They grasp—is it by art—
The far To-morrow's trace?

They see what is unseen,
And hear what is unheard,
And To-morrow's shade or sheen
Rests on the poet's word.

As seers see a star

Then it's a hooraw, and a hooraw,
Thru the merry green fields, hooraw!
Standin' on the walls of Zion, Zion,
See my ship come sailin', sailin,
Standin' on the walls of Zion,
See my ship come sailin' home.

Oh! please just one peep,
At my cabin in the hills
Where the pine trees sway,
And the hound dogs bay
To the notes of the whip-poor-will.
Oh! when the sun goes down,
And the day is done,
And the stars peep through
The fading blue,
Ma knits Pa's socks,
Pa oils his gun.
Oh! one more song on this old banjo,
For my dear Ma and my good Pa;
For it is written down, they've got to go
To a land beyond that deep blue sky.
True are the words of the old-fashioned hymn,
God has a home prepared for them,