1. My heart, how very hard it's grown! Thickened and stiffened
2. An heart wherein compacted weeds Of diverse lusts a-
clay Daily trod by the wicked
bound, No entrance for the heavenly
one, Of sin the beaten way.
seeds Falling on such a ground!

3. O my almighty Saviour, come!
Thy word's a wondrous plow,
And let thy spirit drive it home;
This heart, oh break it so!

4. Lord, let my broken heart receive
Thy truth with faith and love;
May it a just reception give
To what falls from above.

5. Will my God plow upon a rock?

Ah, let me forget!
For now my thoughts are as thick
as once
was my hair—
black then, but
now frosty
as Isonokami's sands.

Think you that I will drain the dregs of Love,
I who have quaffed the sweetness on its brink?
Now by the steadfast burning stars above,
Better to faint of thirst than thuswise drink.
What! shall we twain who saw love's glorious fires
Flame toward the sky and flush Heaven's self with light,
Crouch by the embers as the glow expires,
And huddle closer from mere dread of night?
No! cast love's goblet in oblivion's well,
Scatter love's ashes o'er the field of time!
Yet, ere we part, one kiss whereon to dwell
When life sounds senseless as some feeble rhyme.

If Lincoln were to come again to earth,
—And view this land of plenty and yet know
That countless of its people knew but dearth,
—And in their hearts was bitterness and woe,
Those sorrowing eyes of his perhaps would wear
—An even more profound and troubled gaze,
And though he faltered he would not despair,
—But find new lamps to light the darkened ways.

For only he who once walked hand in hand
—With poverty can feel for those whose lot
It is to wear the stigma of the brand
—Of alms and doles that leaves an ugly blot—

One chrysanthemum
left unpicked—home
to a butterfly.

To spring belongs the violet, and the blown
Spice of the roses let the summer own.
Grant me this favor, Muse—all else withhold—
That I may not write verse when I am old.

And yet I pray you, Muse, delay the time!
Be not too ready to deny me rhyme;
And when the hour strikes, as it must, dear Muse,
I beg you very gently break the news.

The solitary victor roams at will
Oer ruined countrys which his sword hath left
Like as the solitary Eagle round her haunts
Made into deserts by her long sojourn
Screaming amid the solitary sky
Seeking in vain for prey

I'm giving a party to-morrow at three,
And these are the people I'm asking to tea.

I'm sure you will know them—they're old friends, not new;
Bo-peep and Jack Horner and Little Boy Blue.

And Little Miss Muffet, and Jack and his Jill
(Please don't mention spiders—nor having a spill).

And Little Red Riding-Hood—Goldilocks too
(When sitting beside them, don't talk of the Zoo).

And sweet Cinderella, and also her Prince
(They're married—and happy they've lived ever since!)

And Polly, and Sukey; who happily settle

Fair, shining mountains of my pilgrimage,
And flow'ry vales, whose flow'rs were stars:
The days and nights of my first happy age;
An age without distaste and wars:
When I by thoughts ascend your sunny heads,
And mind those sacred midnight lights,
By which I walked, when curtained rooms and beds
Confined, or sealed up others' sights:
O then how bright
And quick a light
Doth brush my heart and scatter night;
Chasing that shade
Which my sins made,
While I so spring, as if I could not fade!

Shall I thus ever long, and be no whit the near,
And shall I still complain to thee, the which me will not hear?
Alas say nay, say nay, and be no more so dumb,
But open thou thy manly mouth, and say that thou wilt come;
Whereby my heart may think, although I see not thee,
That thou wilt come, thy word so sware, if thou a livesman be.

The roaring hugey waves, they threaten my poor ghost,
And toss thee up and down the seas, in danger to be lost.
Shall they not make me fear that they have swallowed thee?
But as thou art most sure alive so wilt thou come to me;