O that I might believe that time
Is but a measure thrown on things
That hold existence in a sphere
Intense alone, and always felt
In full reality! For then
I could evade despondency
By magnifying to my frame
The ecstatic beat that night and day
Pulses within the milk-white walls
Of mental sloth, eager to break
Into the radiant release
Of vision divine and precise.

— Time that is a shrouded thought
Involving earth and life in doubt.

Don Roderigo took her fancy
As he flaunted his cloak on the highway:
She gave him a curtsey, not knowing why,
And he answered her with a " Good-day".

Don Roderigo halted then his wandering
And sang in the petalled orchard his intent:
" If the night's pellucid we will walk
Till the stars relent."

Don Roderigo hid the stars
With his cloak like ravens' wings:
He walked with a maid's virginity
And regaled her with all manner of things.

Sonnett

Like to a lampe whose flaming lyghte is deade
Or as a rynge whose Rubie out ys fall
Or as a neaste from whence the Birdes are fledd
Or as a shryne wher no Saynte is att all
Or as a well when driede is the Springe
Or as a hooke where no sweete baite ys leafte
Or as a Cage whearin no byrde doth synge
Or as the Spraye from whence the rose is refte
Or as the Hyve the honny hadd awaye
Or as the lymmes when lyffe hath taken flighte
Or as the worlde depryvede of the daye
Or [as] the moone Eclypsede of hyr lyghte

Early dawn and the nymphs are gliding
in an elusive sequence
of gold light along the woodland's edge;
and the songs
of roused birds are making
dawn vocal in leafy domes.

Huskisson is yet sleeping.
When at last light slits his puffy lids
the nymphs have taken to their far recesses
and birds are busy on their wings.

But soon he takes his whittled stick
and goes into the early morning.
Down the lane to the garth-pen
he urges the mournful milky cattle.

The milkmaids meet them in the sheds

Out dar in de dark, when folks is asleep,
Dey's Things gwine on dat'll make you creep;
Dey's a crowd er Sump'n's out dar at play
Fum de middle er de night spang on twel day,
An' de mortal stillness dat falls on all
Is de noise dey makes when dey cry an' call —
It's over an' under an' 'roun' ag'in,
Dey flits wid de shadders an' flies wid de win'.

An' Dreams, long dremp, slip outer de swamp,
An' make der plans fer a mighty romp,
An' doors fly open widout a screak
When dey start ter play at hide-an'-seek;

Folks think deyer smart, an' I speck it's so,
Kaze most anybody bleeze ter know what dey know,
But when you dig down ter de trufe an' all,
You feel like creepin' thoo a hole in de wall,
An' you don't want de hole fer ter be too wide,
Kaze you want a place whar you kin hide —
Fer dat what you know mighty certain an' sho
Ain't mo' dan a thimbleful ter what you ain't know.

When you run yo' head in a hornets' nes'
You kin say what you please an' think de res',
But de ve'y fust thing dat you wanter do

Some fifty year ago, ef l'd 'a' been tol'
Dat some fine day l'd be glad ter be ol',
l'd 'a' sassed um all, an' laughed in der face,
An' 'a' dar'd um ter run me a mile foot-race;
I'd 'a' up an' 'a' cut de pidjin-wing,
Kaze I allers felt like a colt in de spring;
I'd 'a' whirled in de a'r an' lit on my feet,
Fer when it come ter dat I couldn't be beat;
I'd 'a' grinned right at um—but now I know
Lots better dan I know'd some fifty year ago.

Kaze now I kin set right flat in my cheer,
An' call back de days fum year ter year—

Atter usin' de spring fer a lookin'-glass —
A-wish, wish, wishin' —
Mr. Rabbit tuk a walk on de pastur'-grass —
A-wish, wish, wishin'.

De gals come along — Will you let us pass? —
Des a-wishin'.
He bowed, he did, an' he shot one eye —
A-wish, wish, wishin' —

An' he tip his beaver when dey pass by —
Des a-wishin'.
Oh, ladies all, ain't you skeered er ha'nts? —
A-wish, wish, wishin'.

Skeered er no, we're gwine ter de dance —
Des a-wishin'.

Full lytle knowes my deare and sweeteste frynde
what wery nights my resteles fancye tryes
When all men els to geve theyr Cares an ende
with slombringe harts close upp their wakinge eyes
How ofte have I layde in my quiett Bedd
to thinke on her foreborne my nightlye ease
And to my selfe howe often have I sayde
with deepe fott syghes such tremblinge woordes as theis
Yee stately lymmes whom my desires pursue
wherso yee lodge receave your happie reste
And for his sake that vowes hym selfe to yowe
harbour on thoughte off me within that breste

He is Saint Michael of the flaming sword
His curl'd head wreath'd in flame.

His wings with a myriad curving blades
Cut and climb the cloudy air.

His sword is terrible and high:
The devil is a distraught worm.

O yellow flame of swift blade!
O red and inwrith'd worm!