If only I could write in the first person
I, a woman alone, off in a corner
If only I could write in the first person
Like this: I, I.

A home wants nothing when it has a good wife.
If such a woman is not found in the house,
Or if she is a woman who uses hard words,
The house is like a den where a tiger dwells.

If we bathe and garland our god and sing unto the name of this righteous god regularly,
There shall be no bad days in the land;
There shall be rain,—three showers a month.
Rice fields will be rich and swarm with fish.
Blossoms will be filled with honey and attract all kinds of insects.
Cows will be fat and big and give pots and pots of milk.
Thus the country will enjoy increasing riches.

She burst fierce wine
From the tough skin of pain,
Like wind that wrings from rigid skies
A scant and bitter gleam,
Long after the autumnal dusk
Has folded all the valleys in.

You are a poet, sycamore,
A minor poet.
You are not much good in a practical world;
You shed your ragged leaves early, and clutter up the landscape.
But you are lovely on winter evenings
Against the afterglow—
Bare and pale and a little disdainful,

O peace is a white bird,
And Beauty is a castled cloud,
And Love is a fierce fire that loves to be made kind;

And I have climbed the castled cloud,
And I have caged the fierce fire,
But the white bird, the white bird—her I cannot bind!

Bits of song—what else?
I, a rider of the stream,
Lone between the clouds.

We fight for Peace—not for Revenge or Hate,
Forgetful of the names of Fame or Fate—
Winning by war the Time when wars shall cease.
Soldiers of Concord! Sentinels of Peace!

Oh! Freedom, oh! Freedom,
Oh! Freedom, over me;
And before I'll be a slave
I'll be buried in my grave,
And go home to my God

You never seed the like
How the Yankees flew from Pike,
When they hear-ed Jackson May was a-comin'.

With one hundred and fifty men
To put 'em in a pen,
And land 'em on the other side of Jordan.