Though this body, I know,
is a thing of no substance,
must it fade, alas,
so swiftly,
like a soundless fart?

There lies the farm. Do you remember
Those glorious visits in September?
I shall never forget …
I can hear it yet,
“Come in, Master Dick, or your feet'll get wet.”
O the wind and the wet!

Between the two dark clouds
The moon comes out with light.
A little higher than the moon
There is a bird in flight.
O weary, weary are the wings the sky enshrouds!
Wings that have tired too soon.

Ah, woe is for the heart
That loved, nor ever changed.
That ever loved so true
What skies soe'er it ranged.
But weary, weary are the wings that must depart—
Wings that have tired of you!

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out—
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the communists
and I did not speak out—
because I was not a communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out—
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me—
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

The ships are lying in the bay,
The gulls are swinging round their spars;
My soul as eagerly as they
Desires the margin of the stars.

So much do I love wandering,
So much I love the sea and sky,
That it will be a piteous thing
In one small grave to lie.

Now I know that Spring will come again,
Perhaps tomorrow: however late I've patience
After this night following on such a day.

While still my temples ached from the cold burning
Of hail and wind, and still the primroses
Torn by the hail were covered up in it,
The sun filled earth and heaven with a great light
And a tenderness, almost warmth, where the hail dripped,
As if the mighty sun wept tears of joy.
But 'twas too late for warmth. The sunset piled
Mountains on mountains of snow and ice in the west:
Somewhere among their folds the wind was lost,

Oh, the Harbour-light and the Harbour-light!
And how shall we come to the Harbour-light?
'Tis black to-night and the foam is white,
And would we might win to the Harbour-light!

Oh, the Harbour-bar and the Harbour-bar!
And how shall we pass o'er the Harbour-bar?
The sea is tost and the ship is lost,
And deep is the sleep 'neath the Harbour-bar.

She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph
Or naïad, on the mossy, purpled bank
Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet
Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love.
Or like those shapes that on the western clouds
Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl,
And teach the evening winds their melody:
How shall I tell her beauty?—for the eye,
Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam.
One glance, and then no more, upon that brow
Brighter than marble shining through those curls,
Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells

The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.
Yes: he was soliloquising, not making something.
Do not the words of Jesus ring
Like nails knocked into a board
In his father's workshop?

When I call o'er the roll-call of my wrongs,
The black folly with which my foes me charge,
How I am pilloried 'fore gaping throngs,
The puerile littleness of life bulks large.
The thieves and villains who hold me in thrall,
The Docs, and aggressors who put me here,
The wicked laws of this great State, and all
The Laws dread enginry the poor so fear
Force Hope-In-Man her breath to sudden catch,
Force Hope-In-Man to feel her time hath come,
And bid her swift prepare to lift the latch
Which opes the grimy portal to the tomb.