When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of Glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast
Save in the cross of Christ my God.
All vain things that charm me most
I sacrifice them to his flood.

See from his head, his hands, his feet,
Sorrow and love flowed mingling down.
Did e'er such love and sorrow meet
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

His dying crimson like a robe
Spreads o'er his body on the tree.
When I am dead to all the globe,

When I have folded up this tent
— And laid the soiled thing by,
I shall go forth 'neath different stars,
— Under an unknown sky.

And yet whatever house I find
— Beneath the grass or snow
Will ne'er be tenantless of love
— Or lack the face I know.

O lips — wild roses wet with rain!
— Blown hair of drifted brown!
O passionate eyes! O panting heart —
— When in that colder town

I lie, the one inhabitant,
— My hands across my breast,
How warm through all eternity
— The summer of my rest!

The mother-hands no further toil may know;
The mother-eyes smile not on you and me;
The mother-heart is stilled, alas! — But O
The mother-love abides eternally.

When he kicked the ball under a plum tree,
a blossom fell, fluttering, and the ball stayed in the sky.
Kicking the ball high is what a good player does.
How I love my lord in pale blue hakama , as he kicks the ball!
My lord is good at playing ball.

When green as a river was the barley,
Green as a river the rye,
I waded deep and began to parley
With a youth whom I heard sigh.
" I seek, " said he, " a lovely lady,
A nymph as bright as a queen,
Like a tree that drips with pearls her shady
Locks of hair were seen.
And all the rivers became her flocks
Though their wool you cannot shear, —
Because of the love of her flowing locks . . .
The kingly Sun like a swain
Came strong, unheeding of her scorn,
Bathing in deeps where she has lain,
Sleeping upon her river lawn

When , full of warm and eager love,
— — I clasp you in my fond embrace,
You gently push me back and say,
— " Take care, my dear, you'll spoil my lace. "

You kiss me just as you would kiss
— — Some woman friend you chanced to see;
You call me " dearest. " — All love's forms
— — Are yours, not its reality.

Oh, Annie! cry, and storm, and rave!
— — Do anything with passion in it!
Hate me an hour, and then turn round
— — And love me truly, just one minute.

When curfew-bells begin,
And the log-fire hisses,
I covered Jeannie in
From head to foot with kisses.

There, in the glow
And flicker of the ingle,
I gave her for to know
How a man loves single:

I gave her for to know,
When the heart needs mating,
How hard a road to go
Was the long lone waiting.

Her face was all a mist,
Her dear eyes tear-laden,
To find herself so kissed,
And man so love a maiden.

Ah! but she did love!
With kind lips so quiet,
While my heart above
Was all storm and riot.

When April & dew brings primroses here
I think love of you at the Spring o' the year
Did I harbour bad words when your garter fell off
I to stoop was deterred but I stood not to scoff
A bitt of brown list of small value must be
But as it lay there 'twas a diamond to me

Ere back you turned to pick it up
I noticed well the place
For children there for violets stoop
With many a rosey face
I fain would stoop myself you see
But dare not well presume
The Blackbird sung out let it be
The maid was in her bloom

When all our hopes are sown on stony ground,
And we have yielded up the thought of gain,
Long after our last songs have lost their sound,
We may come back, we may come back again.

When thorns have choked the last green thing we loved,
And we have said all that there is to say,
When love that moved us once leaves us unmoved,
Then men like us may come to have a day.

For it will be with us as with the bee,
The meager ant, the sea-gull and the loon;
We may come back to triumph mournfully
An hour or two, but it will not be soon.

When all my words were said,
When all my songs were sung,
I thought to pass among
The unforgotten dead,

A Queen of ruth to reign
With her, who gathereth tears
From all the lands and years,
The Lesbian maid of pain;

That lovers, when they wove,
The double myrtle-wreath,
Should sigh with mingled breath
Beneath the wings of Love:

" How piteous were her wrongs,
Her words were falling dew,
All pleasant verse she knew,
But not the Song of songs."

Yet now, O Love, that you
Have kissed my forehead, I