A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live

Willie boy, Willie boy, where are you going?
I will go with you, if I may.
I'm going to the meadows to see them mowing,
I'm going to see them make the hay.

Why should the scribblers discompose
Our temper? would we look like those?
There are some curs in every street
Who snarl and snap at all they meet:
The taller mastiff deems it aptest
To lift a leg and play the baptist.

Whoso maintains that I am humbled now
(Who wait the Awful Day) is still a liar;
I hope to meet my Maker brow to brow
And find my own the higher.

“Who's that ringing at the front door bell?”
Miau! Miau! Miau!
“I'm a little Pussy Cat and I'm not very well!”
Miau! Miau! Miau!
“Then rub your nose in a bit of mutton fat.”
Miau! Miau! Miau!
“For that's the way to cure a little Pussy Cat.”
Miau! Miau! Miau!

Who seeks perfection in the art
Of driving well an ass and cart,
Or painting mountains in a mist,
Seeks God although an Atheist.

They change,
though you can't see it
in the color of their faces—
these blossoms that are the hearts
of the people of this world

“Where art thou wandering, little child?”
I said to one I met to-day—
She push'd her bonnet up and smil'd,
“I'm going upon the green to play:
Folks tell me that the May's in flower,
That Cowslip-peeps are fit to pull,
And I've got leave to spend an hour
To get this little basket full.”

Where there is no Vision
The people perish
. . . Restrain your rude derision,
Where there is no Vision
When they state with such precision
The Hope they cherish.
Where there is no Vision
The people perish.

What was he thinking of,
hauling out his Buddhist rosary
in the Confucian temple!