Though a shower bends the river-grass, a bird is singing,
While ghosts of the Six Dynasties pass like a dream
Around the Forbidden City, under weeping willows
Which loom still for three miles along the misty moat.

WHEN the Virgin bore a child,
Man to God was reconcil'd:
Righteousness and Love could meet
At an Infant Saviour's feet:
Mercy was Religion's part,
And the Temple was the heart;
Poverty had breath to live,
And Resentments to forgive;
Love to enemies could roam,
Never absent from its home;
And the wounded heart could melt
For the hand whose blow it felt.

Had Redemption told no more,
Well might Kings the Child adore,
And Philosophy disclaim
All its impious Learning's fame.
But above the reach of thought
Was the miracle it wrought;

Hoe too is an edged tool,
But in sharpness sickle certainly wins.
Father too is a parent,
Wi tongdo tungsyong
But in love mother surely surpasses.
O love, his indeed cannot be more than hers.

As late by a sodger I chanced to pass,
I heard him a courtin a bony young lass;
My hinny, my life, my dearest, quo he,
I'll mak you be fain to follow me.
Gin I should follow you, a poor sodger lad,
Ilk ane o' my cummers wad think I was mad;
For battles I never shall lang to see,
I'll never be fain to follow thee.

To follow me, I think ye may be glad,
A part o' my supper, a part o' my bed,
A part o' my bed, wherever it be,
I'll mak you be fain to follow me.
Come try my knapsack on your back,
Alang the king's high-gate we'll pack;

Gingerly, the poets sit.
Gingerly, they spend
The adjectives of dribbling flatteries,
With here and there a laceration
Feeding on the poison of a smile.
In the home of the poet-host
That bears the slants of a commonplace
Eagerly distributed—
The accepted lyrical note—
The poets sit.
The poets drink much wine
And tug a little at their garments,
Weighing the advantages of disrobing.
(It is necessary to call them “poets”
Since, according to custom,
Titles are generously given to the attempt.)
Sirona, cousin of the poet-host,

After the clangor of battle
There comes a moment of rest,
And the simple hopes and the simple joys
And the simple thoughts are best.

After the victor's pæan,
After the thunder of gun,
There comes a lull that must come to all
Before the set of the sun.

Then what is the happiest memory?
Is it the foe's defeat?
Is it the splendid praise of a world
That thunders by at your feet?

Nay, nay, to the life-worn spirit
The happiest thoughts are those
That carry us back to the simple joys
And the sweetness of life's repose.

West of the bridge
they dry the nets
on the road to the fishing village.
Noble in the frost, bare of leaves,
the trees along the cold bank.
Mountains reflected in the lake,
mist among the reeds:
I want to bring my whole family with me
and come here to live!

Peace be to this congregation,
Peace to every heart herein!
Peace, the earnest of salvation,
Peace, the fruit of conquered sin;
Peace that speaks the heavenly Giver;
Peace to worldly minds unknown;
Peace that floweth as a river
From the eternal Source alone.

O thou God of peace, be near us,
Fix within our hearts thy home;
With thy bright appearing cheer us,
In thy blessed freedom come!
Come with all thy revelations,
Truth, which we so long have sought;
Come with thy deep consolations,
Peace of God, which passeth thought!

Thus o'er his art indignant Rubens reared
His mighty head, nor critic armies feared.
His lawless style, from vain pretension free,
Impetuous rolling like a troubled sea,
High o'er the rocks of Reason's ridgy verge
Impending hangs; but, ere the foaming surge
Breaks o'er the bound, the under-ebb of taste
Back from the shore impels the watery waste.

I hear the robins singing in the rain.
The longed-for Spring is hushed so drearily
That hungry lips cry often wearily,
“Oh, if the blessed sun would shine again!”

I hear the robins singing in the rain.
The misty world lies waiting for the dawn;
The wind sobs at my window and is gone,
And in the silence come old throbs of pain.

But still the robins sing on in the rain,
Not waiting for the morning sun to break,
Nor listening for the violets to wake,
Nor fearing lest the snow may fall again.

My heart sings with the robins in the rain,