Friend! My friend! You make me cry like a flower blooming at my love's grave.
Friend, who makes me glad as one I encountered in the birdless desert's night.
You are the fragrance of white bones that breaks out of an old grave and pierces up to heaven.
You are a song of hope, yet without hope, which one sings through the fallen flowers picked up to make a wreath in the other branches.

Friend! My friend, who cries over a broken love.
No tears can possibly make fallen blossoms bloom again on their old branch.

Of old 'twas Samuel sought the Lord: to-day
The Lord runs after Samuel—so they say.

But this and then no more
it is my laste and all
And for ech woorde that I did write
a brackishe teare dyd fall
Not that I hope for grace
I dyd theis lynes indyte
For why I knowe the fates them selfes
att such my fortune spite
Butt since my hope my fayth
my love and trewe intente
My lybertie my Service vowed
and all my tyme is spente
Since that all theis I saye
I see are loste in vaine
To loose theis latter wordes withall
I coumpte it lytle paine
And yett yff yow but reade
and view them with your eye

Dim over London breaks
The inevitable day:
Again to hard work wakes
Her world, or harder play.

Swift to their day-sleep go
The lively dreams of night:
We, to our fill of woe,
Or wonder, or delight.

Far into night shall rage
The warfare of the town;
This daily war we wage;
Victors, or smitten down.

Far into night, oh, far!
Some, with no roof but skies,
Shall meet the morning star
With heavy, hopeless eyes.

Faint over London breaks
The inevitable day:
And weary London takes
Once more her strenuous way.

What language, Powel! can thy merits tell,
By nature formed in every path t' excel;
To strike the feeling soul with magic skill,
When every passion bends beneath thy will?
Loud as the howlings of the northern wind,
Thy scenes of anger harrow up the mind;
But most thy softer tones our bosoms move,
When Juliet listens to her Romeo's love.
How sweet thy gentle movements then to see—
Each melting heart must sympathize with thee.
Yet, though design'd in every walk to shine,
Thine is the furious, and the tender thine;

The fragrant dewy rose,
The lily pure and pale,
Each flower the garden shows,
To charm my spirit fail;
Their beauties I admire,
Their fragrance I inhale—
Flowers of my fond desire,
Ye bloom in wood and vale!

I love the tender bloom
On Nature's blushing face—
The violet's soft perfume,
The cowslip's drooping grace,
The hyacinth's azure bells,
Primrose in paley gold,
Starring the woody dells,
And gemming mead and wold;

Laburnum wreaths of gold,
Acacia blossoms white,
Rho'dendron's crimson fold,

Such a wide, still landscape, all cold and white!
And the stars look down through the endless night;
And it's ever so lonely over there,
Where the white bear sleeps in his hidden lair!
There is never the sound of a sea-bird's cry,
No murmuring waters go rippling by,
No breakers roll up to the rocky beach;
There is ice as far as the eye can reach—
A desolate waste, where the foxes roam,
And the seal and the walrus have their home.
If anyone strange came wandering here,
Would they ever guess that our homes are near?
So sheltered and hidden the igloos lie,

There came a man across the moor,
—Fell and foul of face was he.
—He left the path by the cross-roads three,
And stood in the shadow of the door.

I asked him in to bed and board.
—I never hated any man so.
—He said he could not say me No.
He sat in the seat of my own dear lord.

“Now sit you by my side!” he said,
—“Else may I neither eat nor drink.
—You would not have me starve, I think.”
He ate the offerings of the dead.

“I'll light you to your bed,” quoth I.
—“My bed is yours—but light the way!”
—I might not turn aside nor stay;

My senses ofttimes are oppress'd,
Oft stagnant is my blood;
But when by Christel's sight I'm blest,
I feel my strength renew'd.
I see her here, I see her there,
And really cannot tell
The manner how, the when, the where,
The why I love her well.

If with the merest glance I view
Her black and roguish eyes,
And gaze on her black eyebrows too,
My spirit upward flies.
Has any one a mouth so sweet,
Such love-round cheeks as she?
Ah, when the eye her beauties meet,
It ne'er content can be.

And when in airy German dance

Calm Twilight! in thy mild and stilly time,
When Summer flowers their perfume shed around,
And nought save the deep, solitary sound
Of some far bell is heard with solemn chime,
Tolling for Vespers, or the evening bird—
Sending low music through the shady grove
Sweet as the gentle breathings of first love—
While not a leaf by Zephyr's breath is stirred:
As the faint crimson lingers on the wave,
Fond thoughts of those beloved and nearest come,
And memory's dews with gentle freshness lave
Joys that once blossomed in the bower of home.