Die and be buried who will,
I mean to live my fill.
My nature grows ever more young
The primitive pines among.

Use maketh maistry, this hath been said alway:
But all is not alway: as all men do say,
In Aprill the Koocoo can sing her song by rote.
In June out of tune she can not sing a note.
At first, kooco, kooco, sing still can she do,
At last kooke, kooke, kooke: six kookes to one ko.

Do you blame me that I sit hours before this picture?
But if I walked all over the world in the time
I should hardly see anything worth seeing that is not in this picture.

Ye do command me to all virtue ever
And simple truth the law by which we live
Methinks that I can trust your clearer sense
And your immediate knowledge of the truth.
I would obey your influence — one with fate

About Her whom I have not yet met
I wonder what she is doing
Now, at this sunset hour,
Working perhaps, or playing, worrying or laughing,
Is she making tea, or singing a song, or writing, or praying, or reading?
Is she thoughtful, as I am thoughtful?
Is she looking now out of the window
As I am looking out of the window?

Upon Paul's steeple stands a tree,
As full of apples as may be;
The little boys of London town,
They run with hooks to pull them down;
And then they run from hedge to hedge
Until they come to London Bridge.

Upon my darling's beaming eyes
I plied my rhyming trade;
Upon my darling's cherry lips
An epigram I made;
My darling has a blooming cheek,
I penn'd a song upon it;
And if she had but had a heart,
Her heart had a sonnet.

Upon learning that the mother wrote verses,
And that the father wrote verses,
And that the youngest son was in a publisher's office,
And that the friend of the second daughter was undergoing a novel,
The young American pilgrim
Exclaimed:
‘This is a darn'd clever bunch!’

Within this grave lie,
Yes, I.
Why laugh, good people,
Or why cry?
Within this grave
Lies nothing more

The untold want by life and land ne'er granted,
Now voyager sail thou forth to seek and find.