The old world staggers, but a young, triumphant world is born.
Before the Tower of Babel, sound a clear, resurgent horn
And prophesy the jubilant dawn when a true peace will come!
Make the will of the world your trumpet, the heart of the world your drum!

The old world staggers, but a young, triumphant world is born.
Before the Tower of Babel, sound a clear, resurgent horn
And prophesy the jubilant dawn when a true peace will come!
Make the will of the world your trumpet, the heart of the world your drum!

Old women sit, stiffly, mosaics of pain,
Framed in drab doorways looking on the dark.
Rarely they rouse to gossip or complain
As dozing bitches break their dream to bark.
And then once more they fold their creaking bones
In silence, pulled about them like a shawl.
Their memories: a heap of tumbling stones,
Once builded stronger than a city wall.
Sometimes they mend the gaps with twitching hand,—
Because they see a woman big with child,
Because a wet wind smells of grave-pocked land,
Because a train wailed, because troops defiled.

Each summer sound
Is a summer round.

When deceitfull lovers lay
At thy feet their suppliant hearts
And their snares spread to betray
Thy best treasure with their arts,
Credit not their flatt'ring vows,
Love such perjurie allowes.

When they with the choicest wealth
Nature boasts of have possest thee,
When with flowers (their verses stealth)
Stars, or jewels they invest thee,
Trust not to their borrow'd store,
Tis but lent to make thee poore.

When with Poems they invade thee,
Sing thy prayses or disdain,
When they weep and would perswade thee

" Upon Israel and upon the Rabbis, and upon their disciples and upon all the disciples of their disciples, and upon all who engage in the study of the Torah in this place and in every place, unto them and unto you be abundant peace, grace, lovingkindness, mercy, long life, ample sustenance and salvation, from their Father who is in Heaven. And say ye Amen. " Kaddish de Rabbanan , translated by R. Travers Herford.
Upon Israel and upon the rabbis
and upon the disciples and upon all the disciples of their disciples

OLD wine to drink!
Ay, give the slippery juice
That drippeth from the grape thrown loose
Within the tun;
Plucked from beneath the cliff
Of sunny-sided Teneriffe,
And ripened 'neath the blink
Of India's sun!
Peat whiskey hot,
Tempered with well-boiled water!
These make the long night shorter, —
Forgetting not
Good stout old English porter.

Old wood to burn!
Ay, bring the hill-side beech
From where the owlets meet and screech,
And ravens croak;
The crackling pine, and cedar sweet;

The old wind stirs the hawthorn tree;
— The tree is blossoming;
Northward the road runs to the sea,
— And past the House of Spring.

The folk go down it unafraid;
— The still roofs rise before;
When you were lad and I was maid,
— Wide open stood the door.

Now, other children crowd the stair,
— And hunt from room to room;
Outside, under the hawthorn fair,
— We pluck the thorny bloom.

Out in the quiet road we stand,
— Shut in from wharf and mart,
The old wind blowing up the land,
— The old thoughts at our heart.

The old West, the old time,
The old wind singing through
The red, red grass a thousand miles—
And, Spanish Johnny, you!
He'd sit beside the water ditch
When all his herd was in,
And never mind a child, but sing
To his mandolin.

The big stars, the blue night,
The moon-enchanted lane;
The olive man who never spoke,
But sang the songs of Spain.
His speech with men was wicked talk—
To hear it was a sin;
But those were golden things he said
To his mandolin.

The gold songs, the gold stars,

A Folk-Medley From Echoes of Childhood

UNCLE JIM

Old Uncle Jim was as blind as a mole,
But he could fiddle Virginia Reels,
Till you felt the sap run out of your heels,
Till you knew the devil had got your soul — —

Down the middle and swing yo' partners,
Up agin and salute her low,
Shake yo' foot an' keep a-goin'
Down the middle an' do-se-do!

Mind yo' manners an' doan git keerless,
Swing yo' lady and bow full low,
S'lute yo' partner an' turn yo' neighbor,
Gran'-right-an'-left, and aroun' you go!

DELPHY

Old Time is lame and halt,
The snail can barely crawl:
But how should I find fault,
Who cannot move at all?

No gleam of cheerful sun!
No hope my life to save!
I have two rooms, the one
I die in and the grave.

May be, I've long been dead,
May be, a giddy train
Of phantoms fills my head,
And haunts what was my brain.

These dear old gods or devils,
Who see me stiff and dull,
May like to dance their revels
In a dead Poet's skull.

Their rage of weird delight
Is luscious pain to me: