It was running down to the great Atlantic.
I called it back to me,
But it slyly looked and said,
“I have not time to waste,”
And just went arunning running on.

It was on a cold winter's night
When poor Mary came wandering home.
And the watch-dog did howl,
And the village bell did toll,
And the wind blew across the wild moor.

From within the bamboo blinds —
the rustle of silken robes.
Near the eaves —
a fragrance of blossoms
in deepening moonlight.

It was good for the virgin mary
it was good enough for mary
it was good for the virgin mary
its good enough for me

It is true that I held Thero fair,
Apollodatus a torch of love—
not so no longer:
that light is out.
Mine now woman's love.
The delights of hirsute sex
let us leave to Welsh shepherds.

It is to a goodly child well fitting
To use disports of mirth and pleasance,
To harp, or lute, or lustily to sing,
Or in the press right mannerly to dance.
When men see a child of such governance
They say, " Glad may this child's friends be
To have a child so mannerly as he."

Apropos de Rien

I T is not fair to visit all
The blame on Eve, for Adam's fall;
The most Eve did was to display
Contributory neglige.

It is folly for any man in the world
To cease from praising Him,
When the bird does not cease
And it without a soul but wind.

It has rained
and the moon twitches under moist clouds
I put on my slicker
to walk
through empty streets alone
you, at my side,
my soul, walk too
with me, damp with rain

" This is our home now, "
the birds twitter away.

Who planted them —
those trees out in the fields
shrouded by mist?