When God made man to live his hour,
And hitch his wagon to a star,
He made a being without power
To see His creatures as they are.
He made a masterpiece of will,
Superb above its mortal lot,
Invincible by any ill…
Imagination He forgot!

This man of God, with every wish
To earn the joy of Kingdom Come,
Will prison up the golden fish
In bowl no bigger than a drum.
And though he'll wither from remorse
When he refuses Duty's call,
He'll cut the tail off every horse
And carve each helpless animal.

No spur to humour doth he want,

A BEE goes mumbling homeward pleased,
He has not slaved away his hours;
He's drunken with a thousand healths
Of love and kind regard for flowers.
Pour out the wine,
His joy be mine.

Forgetful of affairs at home,
He has sipped oft and merrily;
Forgetful of his duty—Oh!
What can he say to his queen bee?
He says in wine,
“Boo to her shrine!”

The coward dog that wags his tail,
And rubs the nose with mangy curs,
And fearful says, “Come play, not fight,”
Knows not the draught to drown his fears;
Knows not the wine,
The ruby shine.

The river is stirring in his sleep this night,
Full fed and fighting mad from the lusty rains;
The young spring gods are quick within his veins,
And he's talking, laughing to himself this night.

Listen, the last and holiest eve of flood
Is passing, and to-night the river dreams
Tales from the upland lairs of his warrior streams,
How they came flashing down to join his flood.

Yet he has something on his mind to-night—
A-down his dreams a wayward eddy swirls,
And he laughs outright, a clean laugh like a girl's,

Tell men what they knew before
Paint the prospect from their door.

See, see, mine own sweet jewel,
See what I have here for my darling:
A robin-redbreast and a starling.
These I give both, in hope to move thee—
And yet thou say'st I do not love thee.

Black Bart held up the Cow Creek stage in his manner so polite:
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “be pleased now to alight.

“Your money and your jewelry I'm aimin' to collect,
To aid a worthy purpose that I trust you will respect.”

They lined up with their hands high and Bart he passed the hat.
They filled it and he grinned at 'em for he was standing pat.

The driver was a brave man, too gallant for his health,
And he had swore that with his life he'd guard the express wealth.

He tried to draw his peg leg but Black Bart saw the move,

First bring me Raffael, who alone hath seen
In all her purity Heaven's virgin queen,
Alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then
Titian, ennobler of the noblest men;
And next the sweet Correggio, nor chastise
His wicked Cupids for those wicked eyes.
I want not Rubens's pink puffy bloom,
Nor Rembrandt's glimmer in a dusty room.
With those, and Poussin's nymph-frequented woods,
His templed highths and long-drawn solitudes
I am content, yet fain would look abroad
On one warm sunset of Ausonian Claude.

O that I were where Helen lies,
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies
In fair Kirkconnel lee.—
O Helen fair beyond compare,
A ringlet of thy flowing hair,
I'll wear it still for ever mair
Untill the day I die.—

Curs'd be the hand that shot the shot,
And curs'd the gun that gave the crack!
Into my arms bird Helen lap,
And died for sake o' me!
O think na ye but my heart was sair;
My Love fell down and spake nae mair;
There did she swoon wi' meikle care
On fair Kirkconnel lee.—

Who sees the thorns beneath the crown,
Upon a poet's head?
Who knows they sometimes sing to drown
Some horrid, haunting dread?

Who knows what fears beset their way?
Who knows, who cares indeed,
So sweetness charms within the lay,
That aching temples bleed?

Who knows how much they long to shrink
Misfortune's cruel cup?
Who knows what bitter wine they drink,
Who drain that poison up?

Ah, never say the poet writes
The sweeter for his pain;
'Tis false! the dying soldier fights,
A bloody field to gain.

Were men of such importance as they deem,
Earth might look sad on them for being unread
So long: so long perversely written dead;
A stepping-stone, if that, to the Supreme:
More oft a block, or a misleading beam.
She has her wheel to spin, he[r] weft to thread,
And sings the while: her work supplies them bread;
Her gifts comprise the mastery of her theme.
Thus have they life, & labour clear before
Their faces, with the crown of labour shown
In glimpses where the tangled woodway thins.
But fables, built of old perceptive sins