On village green, whose smooth and well-worn sod,
Cross-pathed, with every gossip's foot is trod;
By cottage door where playful children run,
And cats and curs sit basking in the sun:
Where o'er the earthen seat the thorn is bent,
Cross-armed, and back to wall, poor William leant.
His bonnet broad drawn o'er his gathered brow,
His hanging lip and lengthened visage show
A mind but ill at ease. With motions strange,
His listless limbs their wayward postures change;
Whilst many a crooked line and curious maze,

ON THE white throat of the useless passion
That scorched my soul with its burning breath
I clutched my fingers in murderous fashion,
And gathered them close in a grip of death;
For why should I fan, or feed with fuel,
A love that showed me but blank despair?
So my hold was firm, and my grasp was cruel —
I meant to strangle it then and there!

I thought it was dead. But with no warning,
It rose from its grave last night, and came
And stood by my bed till the early morning,
And over and over it spoke your name.

On the way to my daily occupation,
Passing adown a chill, a dark way,
Entered I into the subway station
Known as Cathedral Parkway.

Ride who will on the elevated,
Tramp who will on the open road,
I took the subway, be it stated
It's nearest to my abode.

Life, I thought, is a game of cricket;
Life, I mused, is a thing alive.
I bought a ticket, I bought a ticket;
I think that I purchased five.

Those are the things that seethe and foment;
Those are the things that weight my brow —
Not that I think they're of any moment,

On the tenth day of December,
And the fourth yeere of K ing Edwards raigne,
Att Musleboorrowe, as I remember,
Two goodly hosts there mett on a plaine.

All that night they camped there,
Soe did the Scotts, both stout and stubborne;
But " wellaway, " it was their song,
For wee haue taken them in their owne turne.

Over night they carded for our English mens coates;
They fished before their netts were spunn;

On the Sunday morning, just at the hour of ten,
When the tug Mico Robert towed the schooner Bigler , through Lake Michigan.
Oh, there we made our canvas in the middle of the fleet,
And the wind hauled to the south'ard, boys, so we had to give her sheet.

Chorus : Watch her, catch her, jump up in her ju-baju,
Give her sheet and let her go, the lads will pull her through.
And don't you hear her howling when the wind was blowing free
On our down trip to Buffalo from Milwaukee.

Englished.

On the Sicilian strand a Hare well wrought
Before the Hounds was by a Dog-fish caught;
Quoth she; all rape of Sea and Earth's on me,
Perhaps of Heav'n, if there a Dog-star be.

On the road, the lonely road,
Under the cold white moon,
Under the ragged trees he strode;
He whistled and shifted his weary load —
Whistled a foolish tune.

There was a step timed with his own,
A figure that stooped and bowed —
A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone,
Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown —
And the moon went behind a cloud.

But the moon came out so broad and good,
The barn-fowl woke and crowed;
Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood,
And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood,

On the pennants of blue are bold characters:
" Wild Cat Imperial Guards. "
Linked armor of gold is worn over field coats.
A thousand ships moored for the night —
the misty river is wide.
Breakfast fires burn in ten thousand stoves —
the vaporous mountains are high.
On the general's broad swallow-jaws
whiskers bristle like lances.
The prisoners — emaciated geese! —
have faces that look like knives.
I'm only sorry that Kao Shih is not here
to ride horses with us to West River
and review the mustered troops.

On the uttermost far-flung ridge of ice and snow
That over pits of sunset fire hangs sheer
My naked spirit poises, then leaps clear
From the cold crystal into the furnace-glow
Of ruby and amber lucencies, and dives
For the brief moment of ten thousand lives
Through fathomless infinities of light,
Then cleansed by lustral flame and frost returns;
And for an instant through my body burns
The immortal fire of cold white ecstasy,
As down the darkening valley of the night
I keep the old track of mortality.

On the night there are shown dim few stars timorous
And light is smothered in a cloak of fear.
Are these hills out? Then night has brooded there
Of dark things till they were no more for us.

Gone are the strict falls, there is no skyline boundary,
The stars are not resting or coming to rest.
What will dawn show? A land breathing calm of breast,
Or a frightened rook-wheeling plain once bed of the sea?