The word, the stone,
the ringing phone,
the part of me
that wants to be alone,

the vow of silence
in the reeds;
God descends
in ravenese.

The vinegar tasters
dip their fingers,
make their faces:
stoic, bitter,

strangely sweet.
The seeker leaves
for Bangladesh,
the prophets check

for signs of theft,
the singers sing
for what is left.
The children breathe.

Come of age.
Search the faces
for a taste
of what's to come:

the widening road,
the row your boat,

Poor Lucy Lake was overgrown,
— But somewhat underbrained.
She did not know enough, I own,
— To go in when it rained.

Yet Lucy was constrained to go;
— Green bedding, — you infer.
Few people knew she died, but oh,
— The difference to her!

POOR LIL' BRACK SHEEP dat stray'd away,
Done los' in de win' and rain,
An' de Shepherd He say, " O hirelin',
Go fin' my sheep again. "
An' de hirelin' frowns, " O Shepherd,
Dat sheep am brack an' bad. "
But de Shepherd He smile like de lil' brack sheep
Is de onliest lamb he had,
Is de onliest lamb he had.

An' he say, " O hirelin', hasten!
For de win' an' de rain am col',
And dat lil' brack sheep am lonesome
Out dere so far from de fol'. "
An' de hirelin' frown, " O Shepherd,
Dat sheep am ol' an' gray. "

I.

A poor lad once and a lad so trim,
Fol de rol de raly O!
Fol de rol!
A poor lad once and a lad so trim
Gave his love to her that loved not him.

II.

And, says she, " Fetch me to-night, you rogue, "
Fol de rol de raly O!
Fol de rol!
And, says she, " Fetch me to-night, you rogue,
Your mother's heart to feed my dog! "

III.

To his mother's house went that young man
Fol de rol de raly O!
Fol de rol!

Poor is the life that misses
The lover's greatest treasure,
Innumerable kisses,
Which end in endless pleasure.
Oh, then, if this be so,
Shall I a virgin die? Fie no!

The Poor in Wit or Judgment, like all Poor,
Revile, for having least, those who have more:
So 'tis the Critick's Scarcity of Wit
Makes him traduce them who have most of it.
Since to their Pitch himself he cannot raise,
He them to his mean Level would debase.
Acting like Demons, that would All deprive
Of Heav'n, to which themselves can ne'er arrive.

Poor in my youth, and in life's later scenes
Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour;
Who nought enjoy'd, while young, denied the means;
And nought, when old, enjoy'd, denied the pow'r.

Poor, impious Soul! that fixes its high hopes
In the dim distance, on a throne of clouds,
And from the morning's mist would make the ropes
To draw it up amid acclaim of crowds —
Beware! That soaring path is lined with shrouds;
And he who braves it, though of sturdy breath,
May meet, half way, the avalanche and death!

O poor young Soul! — whose year-devouring glance
Fixes in ecstasy upon a star,
Whose feverish brilliance looks a part of earth,

Far have I clamored in my mind
But nought so great as love I find;
Deep searching wit, mount-moving might,
Are nought compar'd to that good sprite.
Life of delight and soul of bliss!
Sure source of lasting happiness!
Higher then Heaven! lower then hell!
What is thy tent? Where maist thou dwell?
" My mansion hight humility,
Heaven's vastest capability.
The further it doth downward tend
The higher up it doth ascend;
If it go down to utmost nought,
It shall return with that it sought. "
Lord, stretch thy tent in my strait breast;

Poor heart, unsatisfied!
Poor soul, trying and tried!
Trying to reach the goal,
And tried art thou, O soul,
In all thy ways.

Seeking where'er it be,
Something to solace thee;
Choosing whatever part,
Unfilled art thou, O heart,
Through length of days.

Wherefore these shadows sent?
Wherefore these hours of Lent?
Wherefore the rugged rock,
The fire, the stumbling block,
The vale of tears?

Earth's gilded pleasures lure;
Canst share them and endure
True to thy nobler self,