D AVID was a shepherd lad, beautiful as you,
Sang within a shadowed tent to soothe a king's unrest.
Oh, the bashful years in which he made the songs and hoarded them,
By the other shepherd lads all unguessed.

David's song is in a book, for stupid folk to bow before,
Folk who think it wisdom, which is only lovely song.
You are kin to him, you see beauty in a little moon,
In branches bent to lash you, with each faint gray thong.

David, when he found his songs—did he use to practice them
For a little shepherd maid who marveled at each line?

All these, thy friends, subscribing to thy praise
And fair deservings, have done well; 'twill raise
Opinion in the readers, and engage
Them to peruse, what we saw on the stage.
If knowing ones, their judgment thus will be;
The commendation's short, the Comedy
Speaks better for itself, more home; but yet
My vote must go, I say no purer wit
Did ever grace the scene, nay, it hath in't
Expressions of so new and rich a mint,
That the old poets well might wish the name
Of this new Play were added to their fame.

O men call this the shortest day
The rolling year has seen;
But, darling, with thee far away,
To me, alone, it's been
The longest day
That ever lay
Upon my heart and brain.
So long and drear;
Thou wast not here;
O come to me again!

But backward in the golden June,
When the long days are clearest,
Came one which faded all too soon
From thee and me, my dearest.
Ah hours so sweet
Are always fleet
To sink into the night;
On that fair day
We two did stray
Into Love's land of light!

The rounded world is fair to see,
Nine times folded in mystery:
Though baffled seers cannot impart
The secret of its laboring heart,
Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast,
And all is clear from east to west.
Spirit that lurks each form within
Beckons to spirit of its kin;
Self-kindled every atom glows,
And hints the future which it owes.

Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry,
The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high,
The floor was atremble, the door was afar,
White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar.
I rushed to the dooryard. The city was gone.
My home was a hut without orchard or lawn.
It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream,
Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream . . .
Then . . .
Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row,
Gods of the Indians, torches aglow.

They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer,
And eagles gigantic, aged and sere,

It was in the summer time,
And the leaves were in their prime
And their pride;
It was early in the morn,
And a robin sang forlorn
When she died.

You have seen a budding flower
In some sweet, domestic bower—
Fair to see;
You have seen a lily white,
Pure, and beauteous, and bright;
Such was she!

You have seen that cherished flower
In some sad untimely hour
Leave its tree;
You have seen the lily lost
Even when you prized it most;
So was she!

You can see, on looking back
O'er life's memorable track,
With a sigh,

Up from the woodland pasture
Came Farmer Thompson's son,
Driving the cattle homeward
At the setting of the sun.

The long, narrow, winding pathway
Was shaded, here and there,
By stately-growing elms,
And fringed with flowers fair.

Down this narrow, winding pathway,
In homespun cotton gown,
Came Gracie, the youngest daughter
Of blacksmith William Brown.

Leisurely she tripped along,
Her feet were brown and bare;
Over her shoulders fluttered
Soft braids of auburn hair.

She knew she would meet young Thompson,

The world grows green on a thousand hills—
By a thousand willows the bees are humming,
And a milloin birds by a million rills,
Sing of the golden season coming.
But, gazing out on the sun-kist lea,
And hearing a thrush and a blue-bird singing,
I feel that the Summer is all for me,
And all for me are the joys it is bringing.

All for me the bumble-bee
Drones his song in the perfect weather;
And, just on purpose to sing to me,
Thrush and blue-bird came North together.
Just for me, in red and white,
Bloom and blossom the fields of clover;

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.

The flower handkerchief from the West that I left in my sleeve,
The dyed arabesque design
Whose fragrance is this? You call it “scented gillyflower”
Aloes, saffron, Arisema serratum,
Harbor gossip in Hirado and Dejima,
The flowery words of a minx.
Come and suck at the red berries!
Your mouth will become inflamed and you will spit blood.
Sandalwood, Arisema serratum, Mercury
I call on Jesu in Paradiso.