Vast Superstition! Glorious stile of Weaknesse!
Sprung from the deepe disquiet of Man's passion,
To desolation, and despaire of Nature:
Thy texts bring Princes' Titles into question:
Thy Prophets set on worke the sword of Tyrants:
They manacle sweet Truth with their distinctions;
Let Vertue blood; teach Crueltie for Gods sake;
Fashioning one God, yet him of many fashions,
Like many-headed Error, in their Passions.
Mankinde! Trust not these Superstitious dreames;
Feare's Idoles, Pleasure's Relikes, Sorrowe's Pleasures.

Honor in chief, our Oath is to uphold,
That by no trafficke it be bought or sold.
Else looke what brings that dainty Throne-worke downe,
Addes not, but still takes something from a Crowne.
Profit, and her true Mine, Frugality,
Incident likewise to our Office be:
As husbanding the Scepters spreading right,
To stretch itself, yet not grow infinite;
Or with Prerogative to Tyrannize,
Whose workes prove oft more absolute than wise.
Not mastering Lawes, which Freedom interrupt;
Nor moulding Pulpits, which is to corrupt,

In the high-vaulted temple of my heart
There is an oratory thine alone—
A sweet, hushed, sacred chantry all thine own.
There do I fly when I would be apart
To dream dear dreams, for there I know thou art,
Albeit I see thee not. There is thy throne;
There thou art crowned, and as at altar-stone
Fain would I kneel and let the day depart!
While this remains I cannot lose thee, dear,
Though countless centuries between us roll,
Though earth dissolves, and planets disappear,
And all the splendor of the starry scroll

Kiss me and comfort my heart
Maiden honest and fine.
I am the pilgrim boy
Lame, but hunting the shrine;

Fleeing away from the sweets,
Seeking the dust and rain,
Sworn to the staff and road,
Scorning pleasure and pain;

Nevertheless my mouth
Would rest like a bird an hour
And find in your curls a nest
And find in your breast a bower:

Nevertheless my eyes
Would lose themselves in your own,
Rivers that seek the sea,
Angels before the throne:

Kiss me and comfort my heart,
For love can never be mine;

WITHDRAW thee, soul, from strife.
Enter thine unseen bark,
And sail across the dark,
The silent sea of life.
Leave Care and Grief, feared now no more,
To wave and beckon from the shore.

Thy tenement is bare.
Shut are the burning eyes,
Ears deaf against surprise,
Limbs in a posture fair.
The body sleeps, unheeding thee,
And thou, my sailing soul, art free.

Rouse not to choose thy way;
To make it long or short,
Or seek some golden port
In haste, ere springs the day.
Desire is naught, and effort vain:

CXVI

Prove whether I do change, my dear,
Or if that I do still remain
Like as I went, or far or near,
And if ye find . . .

Oer the grey willows ruddy rose the sun
The morn was sweet & blackbirds had begun
Along the dewy hedgrows here & there
To sing loud anthems to the morning air.

The world's a very happy place,
Where every child should dance and sing,
And always have a smiling face,
And never sulk for anything.

I waken when the morning's come,
And feel the air and light alive
With strange sweet music like the hum
Of bees about their busy hive.

The linnets play among the leaves
At hide-and-seek, and chirp and sing;
While, flashing to and from the eaves,
The swallows twitter on the wing.

The twigs that shake, and boughs that sway;
And tall old trees you could not climb;
And winds that come, but cannot stay,

She sits on the recreation ground
Under an oak whose yellow buds dot the pale blue sky.
The young grass twinkles in the wind, and the sound
Of the wind in the knotted buds makes a canopy.

So sitting under the knotted canopy
Of the wind, she is lifted and carried away as in a balloon
Across the insensible void, till she stoops to see
The sandy desert beneath her, the dreary platoon.

She knows the waste all dry beneath her, in one place
Stirring with earth-coloured life, ever turning and stirring.
But never the motion has a human face

The first we saw of the high-tone tramp
War over thar at our Pecos camp;
He war comin' down the Santa Fe trail
Astride of a wheel with a crooked tail,
A-skinnin' along with a merry song,
An' ringin' a little warnin' gong.
He looked so outlandish, strange and queer
That all of us grinned from ear to ear,
An' every boy on the round-up swore
He had never seed sich a hoss afore.

Wal, up he rode, with a sunshine smile,
A-smokin' a cigarette, an' I'll
Be kicked in the neck if I ever seen
Sich a saddle as that on his queer machine.