The people is a beast of muddy brain
That knows not its own force, and therefore stands
Loaded with wood and stone; the powerless hands
Of a mere child guide it with bit and rein:
One kick would be enough to break the chain;
But the beast fears, and what the child demands,
It does; nor its own terror understands,
Confused and stupefied by bugbears vain.
Most wonderful! with its own hand it ties
And gags itself--gives itself death and war
For pence doled out by kings from its own store.
Its own are all things between earth and heaven;

People all over at this time of year
Are thinking back o'er the past
Regretting the failure of months gone by,
Resolutions that did not last.
Intentions were good, resolutions fine,
Every one well meant, indeed;
But most of the people who started out,
All failed, they did not succeed.

We know that all are sick of the past,
Desiring to be free
From the bondage of habits holding them —
No victory can they see.
The same has been true year in and out,
And repeated o'er and o'er;
'Till many have given up long ago,

Pensive on her dead gazing I heard the Mother of All,
Desperate on the torn bodies, on the forms covering the battlefields gazing,
(As the last gun ceased, but the scent of the powder-smoke linger'd,)
As she call'd to her earth with mournful voice while she stalk'd,
Absorb them well O my earth, she cried, I charge you lose not my sons, lose not an atom,
And you streams absorb them well, taking their dear blood,
And you local spots, and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable,
And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my rivers' depths,

Whilst thy affection I possest,
Nor any youth, before me grac'd,
Thy neck with his fair armes embrac'd,
The Persian King was not so blest.

Whilst to no other thou wert kind,
Nor Lydia lesse then Cloi went,
Lydia a name of proud extent;
The Roman Ilia I outshind.

Now Thracian Cloi is my care,
Whose hand and voice alike are sweet;
For whom I death would fearlesse meet,
Would Fates my soule surviving spare.

Me Calais, Thurine Orniths heire,
Kindly consumes in mutuall fire;
For whom I doubly would expire,

Peer of the gods is that man, who
face to face, sits listening
to your sweet speech and lovely laughter.

It is this that rouses a tumult
in my breast. At mere sight of you
my voice falters, my tongue is broken.

Straightway, a delicate fire runs in
my limbs; my eyes
are blinded and my ears thunder.

Sweat pours out: a trembling hunts
me down. I grow paler
than dry grass and lack little of dying.

Pease-pudding hot.
Pease-pudding cold,
Pease-pudding in the pot,
Nine days old.
Some like it hot,
Some like it cold,
Some like it in the pot,
Nine days old.

A peasant haled a sheep to court,
And pressed against her there a serious objection.
A fox, as judge, is ready for a fault's detection,
Hears plaintiff first and, then, defendant in retort;
Taking in turn each point, and cool, though others stammer,
He seeks the cause of all the clamor.
The peasant says: — " My lord! when visiting my yard,
I found two chickens missing; 'twas in early morning;
Only their bones and feathers served me as a warning;
This sheep alone was there on guard! "

Peace to-night, heroic spirit!
Pain is overpast.
All the strife with life is ended;
You may rest at last.

The devotion that, amazing,
Welled from out the deep
Of your being, no more needed,
Quiet you may sleep:

Sleep, who, giving all for others,
Battled till the victory nigh,
You, too, toil and heart-break over,
Had the right to die! ...

We may guard the grave that holds you,
As a shrine of Truth
Lighted by the pure devotion
Of your radiant youth;

We, you died for, may forget you!

Peace , the one-time radiant goddess,
Now sits bent with heavy sorrow;
For the wicked war-troll, snatching
From its crib her lovely infant,
Left another brat as changeling,
Cross, claw-fingered, and mis-shapen,
Thirsting after blood and tear-streams,
Hungering, too, for death and ravage.
Peace, ah woe is thee, poor mother!

These two courses hast thou, goddess:
Fling the troll-child from its cradle,
Leave it on the public highway,
Let it grow into a savage,
Free from all restraint of nurture
Till it gains the strength of manhood;

Peace maketh plenty;
Plenty maketh pride;
Pride maketh plea;
Plea maketh povert;
Povert maketh peace.