My foolish heart keeps beckoning to me
Portending hopes despite catastrophe
It does not know that my life's sun is setting —
No brief eclipse — but for eternity.
For those drawing near to death I said to them
To nurse delusive hopes is no wise fit
My springtime's done, and it was dark and clouded
Why should my autumn be by sunshine lit?

My Feet they haul me 'round the house:
— They hoist me up the Stairs:
I only have to steer them and
— They ride me everywheres.

My father owns the butcher shop,
My mother cuts the meat,
And I'm the little hot dog
That runs around the street.

" Come unto God!" I heard a preacher call:
Immediate God to me,
Who in His bosom lay — " Mind not at all
Such accidents as he —
Mechanical alarum, sightless seer,
Who bids thee come, and knows not thou art here. "

My children! speak not ill of one another;
I do not ask you not to hate;
Cadets must envy every elder brother,
The little poet must the great.

The muffin man walked down our street,
And whom do you think he happened to meet?
John and Ann were standing there,
Both with pennies to spend at the fair.
But when they thought about our tea
They bought muffins for you and me!

The mountains on the screen shimmer in the golden dawn;
A cloud of hair brushes the fragrant snow of her cheek.
Lazily, she rises and paints mothlike brows;
Slowly, tardily, she gets ready for the day.
Mirrors, front and behind, reflect a flower,
Face and flower shining each upon the other.
Stitched in the silk of her bright new coat,
Golden-threaded partridges fly pair by pair.

The mountains cannot block this dreamlike song
of flowering plum;
playing away my homesickness — the springtime in this flute!
The night waters have no waves,
the crescent moon is out:
how many others are sleepless on the River Chi tonight?

Most soveren lady, comfort of care,
A next in my hert, most in my minde,
Right welth and cause of my welefare,
Gentle trulove, special and kinde,
Eey pinacle, pight with stidfasteness,
Right tristy, and truth of my salace,
Ever well-springinge stillatorye of sweteness,
Tresore full dere, gronded with grace.

More shower than shine
Brings sweet St. Valentine;
Warm shine, warm shower,
Bring up sweet flower on flower:
Thro' shower & shine
Loves you your Valentine,
Thro' shine, thro' shower,
Thro' summer's flush, thro' Autumn's fading hour.