English

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,

He thought he saw the Unicorn, the horned and holy horse,
He looked again and saw it was a Subject for Remorse,
He rushed for what he meant to post—
and didn't post, of course.

He thought he saw the Unicorn, the Virgin's wildest pet,
He looked again and saw it was a Long Outstanding Debt.
He wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote—
and hasn't written yet.

He thought he saw the Unicorn, her mane a wind of pride,
He looked again and tried again, and worked until he died;
He ordered a Pantechnicon—
that's waiting still outside.

Just now … O blown too faint and still,
A shudder of tone. I know not how …
But some one called me from a hill
Just now.

A moth beats at my hair and brow
A soft gray song that leaves me chill …
The moth blurs blindly on somehow.

A bird sang madly and a mill
Hummed and a wet smell edged the plow,
And your white hand was warm … until …

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

There was an Old Man on the Humber,
Who dined on a cake of Burnt Umber;
When he said, ‘It's enough!’—they only said, ‘Stuff!
You amazing Old Man on the Humber!’

I found [thee] them blind I taught [thee] how to see
And now [thou knowst] they know neither [thyself] themselves nor me
Tis Excellent to turn a thorn to a pin
A[Knave] Fool to a bolt a [Fool] Knave to a glass of gin

Nay, gather not that Filbert, Nicholas,
There is a maggot there, . . it is his house, . .
His castle, . . oh commit not burglary!
Strip him not naked, . . 'tis his clothes, his shell,
His bones, the case and armour of his life,
And thou shalt do no murder, Nicholas!
It were an easy thing to crack that nut
Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth,
So easily may all things be destroy'd!
But 'tis not in the power of mortal man
To mend the fracture of a filbert shell.
There were two great men once amused themselves

As mastiff dogs in modern phrase are
Called Pompey, Scipio, and Caesar;
As pies and daws are often styled
With Christian nicknames like a child;
As we say 'Monsieur' to an ape
Without offence to human shape:
So men have got from bird and brute
Names that would best their natures suit:
The lion, eagle, fox and boar
Were heroes' titles heretofore,
Bestowed as hieroglyphics fit

To show their valour, strength or wit.
For what is understood by fame
Besides the getting of a name?
But e'er since men invented guns,

Up my lads, and lift the ledgers, sleep and ease are o'er.
Hear the Stars of Morning shouting: ‘Two and Two are Four’.
Though the creeds and realms are reeling, though the sophists roar,
Though we weep and pawn our watches, Two and Two are Four.

and . . . for times of financial crisis and courage—

“There's a run upon the Bank—
Stand away!
For the Manager's a crank and the Secretary drank,
and the Upper Tooting Bank
Turns to bay!

Stand close: there is a run
On the Bank.

Great God, attend while Zion sings
The joy that from Thy presence springs;
To spend one day with Thee on earth
Exceeds a thousand days of mirth.