She was so little — little in her grave,
The wide earth all around so hard and cold —
She was so little! therefore did I crave
My arms might still her tender form enfold.
She was so little, and her cry so weak
When she among the heavenly children came —
She was so little — I alone might speak
For her who knew no word nor her own name.

She trips across the meadows,
The weird, capricious elf!
The buds unfold their perfumed cups
For love of her sweet self;
And silver-throated birds begin to tune their lyres,
While wind-harps lend their strains to Nature's magic choirs.

Pine needles cover the silent ground:
pine trees chancel the woodland ways.

We penetrate into the dark depths
where only garlic and hemlock grow
till we meet the blue stream
cleaving the green
twilight like a rhythmic sword.

She sits upon her Bulbul
Through the long long hours of night —
And o'er the dark horizon gleams
The Yashmack's fitful light.
The lone Yaourt sails slowly down
The deep and craggy dell —
And from his lofty nest, loud screams
The white-plumed Asphodel.

The shame He suffered left its brand
In gaping wound in either hand;
Sin's penalty He deigned to meet
Has torn and scarred His blessed feet;
The condemnation by Him borne
Marred His brow with print of thorn.
Trespass and guilt for which He died
Have marked Him with a riven side.

1. Shallo Brown, now what's the matter? Shal lo, Shallo
Brown! Oh Shallo Brown, what's the matter? Shal lo, Shallo
Brown! 2. I'm going to leave you, Shal lo Brown, Oh I have

left the wife and baby, Shal lo, Shallo Brown!
3 The baby's in the cradle,
Shallo, Shallo Brown.

Though Caesar falling, shew'd no sign of fear,
Yett Brutus, when thou did'st appear,
When thy false hand, against him came,
He vail'd his face, to hide that shame,
Which did on the mistake attend
Of having own'd thee, for his Freind.

Seven little pigs went to market,
One of them fell down;
One of them, he ran away,
And five got to town.

Setting out on the road,
the second goodbye
spoken with the hat

Setting out at dawn from T'ung-lu county,
green mountains thrusting through the fog.
River village — empty inn with moon;
country fort — frozen flag in wind.
My clothes, all stuffed with cotton, warm;
my face, all flushed with wine, is red.
The sun goes higher, my horse slips as I ride;
killing sadness comes to this old man.