The rain is dark against the white sky,
Or white against the foliage of eucalyptus-trees.
But, in the cistern, it is a sheet of mauve and amber,
Because of the chrysanthemums
Heaped about its edge.

He that imposes an oath, makes it —
Not he that for convenience takes it;
Then how can any man be said
To break an oath he never made?

How are they bandied up and down by fate,
By so much more unhappy as they're great:
Greatness, thou gaudy torment of our souls,
The wise man's fetters, and the range of fools.

Poor, honest George, Swift's works to print:
Thy fortune's made, or nothing's in't.
Subscribers, a vast number, show
There is no want of money now.
The Dean's so great a man of taste,
I'll covet to read him in haste,
More from thy press, than any other:
Let what will happen to Fairbrother.

The Dean must die? — Our idiots to maintain!
Perish ye idiots! — and long live the Dean!

Vos Hiberni, collocatis,
Summum bonum in potatoes.

[Strive to state us, Irish tillers,
With potatoes, best of fillers.]

Tlop — tlop — clatter — clatter! ... " Hi there, stop! What's the matter? Have you gone mad that you clash against the pages and lash your verbs and nouns in hot rages of sounds? Zounds! " cries the astounded reader, " Are there no laws for such a speeder? Will she never pause as her sixty-horse power Pegasus courses madly on the earth here or the sky there? ... Hi, there! "

When the toads begin to ring,
Then thinner clothing bring
or Off your greatcoat fling

Why toll the bell today —
Its knell has died away —

After lunch — one short nap:
On waking up — two cups of tea.
Raising my head, I see the sun's light
Once again slanting to the south-west.
Those who are happy regret the shortness of the day;
Those who are sad tire of the year's slot.
But those whose hearts are devoid of joy or sadness
Just go on living, regardless of " short " or " long. "