Pale , climbing disk, who dost lone vigil keep
When all the flower-heads droop in drowsy swoon;
When lily bells fold to the zephyr's tune,
And wearied bees are lapped in sugared sleep;
What secret hope is thine? What purpose deep?
Art thou enamored of the siren moon
That thus thy white face from the god of noon
Thou coverest, while his chariot rounds the steep?
Poor, frail Endymion! know her lustre's line
Is but the cold, reflected majesty
That clothes the great sun's regent-borrowed shine
Of him who yields restricted ministry,

How many of the bright names now that seem
In fame's high heaven fixed eternal spheres
Shall hold their faint reflections in the stream
Of memory ten hundred thousand years?

Who knows but we are in the night and yet
There is a universal sun to rise,
When all these twinkling stars of fame shall set,
Or fade into the nothingness of skies?

Mankind may climb the pyramid of soul,
Up by the stairflight of the centuries,
So high that they shall hear the anthems roll
Of seraphim, and see where heaven is.

I am sitting on the grave—
and that couch is cold enough,
not knowing how long may be the time
till I am drawn into its bourne;
a flannel shroud, a linen shirt
and a black, close-built chest of boards—
'tis all that goes with me beneath the sod,
however much substance I accumulate.

'Tis little heed we pay to death
as long as we are strong and young;
we imagine if we get a respite
that it is our portion to remain alive.
We may discern from the case of others,
who are departing from us every day,
it is our lot by nature at all times

Salvatore's dead—a gap
Where he worked in the ditch-edge, shovelling mud;
Slanting brow; a head mayhap
Rather small, like a bullet; hot southern blood;
Surly now, now riotous
With the flow of his joy; and his hovel bare,
As his whole life is to us—
A stone in his belly the whole of his share.

Body starved, but the soul secure,
Masses to save it from Purgatory,
And to dwell with the Son and the Virgin pure—
Lucky Salvatore!

Salvatore's glad, for see
On the hearse and the coffin, purple and black,
Tassels, ribbons, broidery

My mind needs no fire escape.
It is equipped with automatic sprinklers.
As soon as an idea catches fire
They put it out.
I am heavily insured against
Inflammatory notions.

Off with the fetters
That chafe and restrain!
Off with the chain!
Here Art and Letters,
Music and wine,
And Myrtle and Wanda,
The winsome witches,
Blithely combine.
Here are true riches,
Here is Golconda,
Here are the Indies,
Here we are free—
Free as the wind is,
Free as the sea,
Free!

Houp-la!

What have we
To do with the way
Of the Pharisee?
We go or we stay
At our own sweet will;
We think as we say,
And we say or keep still
At our own sweet will,
At our own sweet will.
Here we are free

Time was, a wealthy Englishman would join
A rich plum-pudding to a fat sirloin;
Or bake a pasty, whose enormous wall
Took up almost the area of his hall:
But now, as art improves, and life refines,
The demon Taste attends him when he dines,
Serves on his board an elegant regale,
Where three stewed mushrooms flank a larded quail;
Where infant turkeys, half a month resigned
To the soft breathings of a southern wind,
And smothered in a rich ragout of snails,
Outstink a lenten supper at Versailles.
Is there a saint that would not laugh to see

Sometimes,
In spinning over the leaves of a book,
The eye catches a glamorous phrase
That a methodical search through the volume
Fails to rediscover.
Even so, every day,
There are moments of shining astonishment
That my sober retrospection
Can never define.

Joy of my soul! who now, in Catmose' vale,
Cradlest our drooping Infant on thy breast,
And shield'st from Wintry blasts, that would assail
His fading Cheek, ah! may no gale unblest
Shake thy own tender frame, nor anxious care,
For him thou leav'st, reluctant, mar thy rest.
Midst thy long-sever'd Kindred may'st thou share
The season's pastimes, and its joys encrease
With fond remember'd tales of Infancy—
Its artless pranks, and freaks of wayward ire.
When griefs were transient, when the halcyon, Peace,
Spread her gay pinion, and high-bounding Glee

They are flocking from the East
And the West,
They are flocking from the North
And the South,
Every moment setting forth
From realm of snake or lion,
Swamp or sand,
Ice or burning;
Greatest and least,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth,
They are flocking up the path
To their rest,
Up the path that hath
No returning.

Up the steeps of Zion
They are mounting,
Coming, coming,
Throngs beyond man's counting;
With a sound
Like innumerable bees
Swarming, humming
Where flowering trees
Many tinted,
Many scented,