There lies a lone isle in the tropic seas,—
A mountain isle, with beaches shining white,
Where soft stars smile upon its sleep by night,
And every noonday fans it with a breeze.
Here on a cliff, carved upward from the knees,
Three uncouth statues of gigantic height,
Upon whose brows the circling sea-birds light,
Stare out to ocean over the tall trees.
For ever gaze they at the sea and sky,
For ever hear the thunder of the main,
For ever watch the ages die away;
And ever round them rings the phantom cry

There leeft a may, an a weel-far'd may,
High, high up in yon glen; O
Her name was Katarine Janfarie,
She was courtit by monie men. O

Up then cam Lord Lauderdale,
Up thrae the Lawland border,
And he has come to court this may,
A' mountit in gude order.

He 's telld her father, he 's telld her mother,
An a' the lave o her kin,
An he has telld the bonnie lass bersel,
An has her favour win.

Out then cam Lord Faughanwood,
Out frae the English border,
An for to court this well-far'd may,
A' mountit in gude order.

There it lies: —
An injured toad,
Tumbled away to the side of the road,
Dashed from the track of its shiny slime;
Silly sight for pausing eyes:
Skeptic of the rules of Time ...
Where has it thrown its respectable load?

Passive inhabitants — how they were hurled
Into a sudden other world;

Jagged fragments of glass lie down
Each like a frozen cry or frown.

Oh what a change! And what a strange
Upheaval of hands must have gone to that,
Or following plunge at a falling hat,
Or lurching into a broken thigh,

There is something between us.

There
is someone I can bear —
" a master of indignation . . .
meant for a soldier
converted to letters, " who could

throw
a man through the window,
yet, " tender toward plants, " say, " Good God,
the violets! " (below).
" Accomplished in every

style
and tint " — considering meanwhile
infinity and eternity,
he could only say, " I'll
talk about them when I understand them. "

There is some that like the city —
Grass that's curried smooth and green,
Theayters and stranglin' collars,
Wagons run by gasoline —
But for me it's hawse and saddle
Every day without a change,
And a desert sun a-blazin'
On a hundred miles of range.

Just a-ridin', a-ridin' —
Desert ripplin' in the sun,
Mountains blue along the skyline —
I don't envy anyone
When I'm ridin'.

When my feet is in the stirrups
And my hawse is on the bust,
With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'
From a cloud of golden dust,

There is so much loveliness gone out of the world!
There is left but the violet dusk of the wood
And the slow wavering of grey-blue hills on the sky.
The dead grass is silent and the dead leafage whirled
Down the long lanes of silent air. The barberry
Drips from its twisted crown of thorns slow drops of blood.

These are the days when the soul is less than a leaf
Blown through the shrivelled grass or left on the frozen sod;
For these, if they fail, fail with one more sure than they.
Now doubt stands long by the murdered bed of relief

It does my heart with deepest sorrow fill,
That I no more thy praises can proclaim;
To check the mighty tide of human ill,
And bid thine offspring glorify thy name;
By night and day my failings I lament,
That draw me back from my full stature high;
I cannot be with this cold love content,
But must in Christ with nobler ardor try
To be whate'er his full command requires;
To show Thee, Father, by my borrowed light,
And kindle up, amid the sinking fires,
A sun to fill the darkness of the night;
With rays from thine own glory ever thrown,

There is one that has a head without an eye,
And there's one that has an eye without a head.
You may find the answer if you try;
And when all is said,
Half the answer hangs upon a thread.

There is one sin: to call a green leaf grey,
Whereat the sun in heaven shuddereth.
There is one blasphemy: for death to pray,
For God alone knoweth the praise of death.

There is one creed: 'neath no world-terror's wing
Apples forget to grow on apple-trees.
There is one thing is needful—everything—
The rest is vanity of vanities.