I'll tell thee everything I can:There's little to relate.I saw an aged aged man,A-sitting on a gate.'Who are you, aged man?' I said.'And how is it you live?'And his answer trickled through my head,Like water through a sieve.He said, 'I look for butterfliesThat sleep among the wheat:I make them into mutton-pies,And sell them in the street.I sell them unto men,' he said,'Who sail on stormy seas;And that's the way I get my bread,A trifle, if you please.'But I was thinking of a planTo dye one's whiskers green,And always use so large a fanThat they could not be seen.So having no reply to giveTo what the old man said, I cried'Come, tell me how you live!'And thumped him on the head.His accents mild took up the tale:He said 'I go my ways,And when I find a mountain-rill,I set it in a blaze;And thence they make a stuff they callRowland's Macassar-Oil,Yet twopence-halfpenny is allThey give me for my toil.'But I was thinking of a wayTo feed oneself on batter,And so go on from day to day 'Getting a little fatter.I shook him well from side to side,Until his face was blue:'Come, tell me how you live,' I cried,'And what it is you do!'He said, 'I hunt for haddocks' eyesAmong the heather bright,And work them into waistcoat-buttonsIn the silent night.And these I do not sell for goldOr coin of silvery shine,But for a copper halfpenny,And that will purchase nine.'I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,Or set limed twigs for crabs:I sometimes search the grassy knollsFor wheels of Hansom-cabs.And that's the way' (he gave a wink)'By which I get my wealth,And very gladly will I drinkYour Honour's noble health.'I heard him then, for I had justCompleted my designTo keep the Menai bridge from rustBy boiling it in wine.I thanked him much for telling meThe way he got his wealth,But chiefly for his wish that heMight drink my noble health.And now, if e'er by chance I putMy fingers into glue,Or madly squeeze a right-hand footInto a left-hand shoe,Or if I drop upon my toeA very heavy weight,I weep, for it reminds me soOf that old man I used to know,Whose look was mild, whose speech was slowWhose hair was whiter than the snow,Whose face was very like a crow,With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,Who seemed distracted with his woe,Who rocked his body to and fro,And muttered mumblingly and low,As if his mouth were full of dough,Who snorted like a buffalo-That summer evening long ago,A-sitting on a gate.
Love, like a beggar, came to meWith hose and doublet torn:His shirt bedangling from his knee,With hat and shoes outworn.He ask'd an alms; I gave him bread,And meat too, for his need:Of which, when he had fully fed,He wished me all good speed.Away he went, but as he turn'd(In faith I know not how)He touch'd me so, as that I burn['d],And am tormented now.Love's silent flames and fires obscureThen crept into my heart;And though I saw no bow, I'm sureHis finger was the dart.ByRobert Herric
George FullerHaunted of Beauty, like the marvellous youthWho sang Saint Agnes' Eve! How passing fairHer shapes took color in thy homestead air!How on thy canvas even her dreams were truth!Magician! who from commonest elementsCalled up divine ideals, clothed uponBy mystic lights soft blending into oneWomanly grace and child-like innocence.Teacher I thy lesson was not given in vain.Beauty is goodness; ugliness is sin;Art's place is sacred: nothing foul thereinMay crawl or tread with bestial feet profane.If rightly choosing is the painter's test,Thy
Now while so many turn with love and longingTo wan lands lying in the grey North Sea,To thee we turn, hearts, mem�ries, all belonging,Dear land of ours, to thee.West, ever west, with the strong sunshine marchingBeyond the mountains, far from this soft coast,Until we almost see the great plains arching,In endless mirage lost.A land of camps where seldom is sojourning,Where men like the dim fathers of our raceHalt for a time, and next day, unreturning,Fare ever on apace.Last night how many a leaping blaze affrightedThe wailing birds of passage in their file:&nb
By Madison Julius CaweinPart IVLate AutumnThey who die young are blest. -Should we not envy such? They are Earth's happiest,God-loved and favored much! - They who die young are blest.1Sick and sad, propped among pillows, she sits at her window.'Though the dog-tooth violet comeWith April showers,And the wild-bees' music humAbout the flowers,We shall never wend as whenLove laughed leading us from menOver violet vale and glen,Where the bob-white piped for hours,And we heard the rain-crow's drum.Now November heavens are gray;Autumn killsEvery joy - like leaves of MayIn the rills. -Still I sit
The Marionettes ByWalter De La Mare Let the foul Scene proceed:There's laughter in the wings;'Tis sawdust that they bleed,But a box Death brings.How rare a skill is theirsThese extreme pangs to show,How real a frenzy wearsEach feigner of woe!Gigantic dins uprise!Even the gods must feelA smarting of the eyesAs these fumes upsweal.Strange, such a Piece is free,While we Spectators sit,Aghast at its agony,Yet absorbed in it!Dark is the outer air,Cold the night
Tune - "Bonnie wee thing."I.Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,I wad wear thee in my bosom,Lest my jewel I should tine.Wishfully I look and languishIn that bonnie face o' thine;And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,Lest my wee thing be na mine.II.Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty&n
When the drums begin to beatDown the street,When the poles are fetched and guyed,When the tight-rope's stretched and tied,When the dance-girls make salaam,When the snake-bag wakes alarm,When the pipes set up their drone,When the sharp-edged knives are thrownWhen the red-hot coals are shown,To be swallowed by-and-by,Arre, Brethren, here come I!Stripped to loin-cloth in the sun,Search me well and watch me close!Tell me how my tricks are done,Tell me how the mango grows!Give a man who is not madeTo his tradeSwords to fling and catch again,Coins to ring and snatch again,Men to harm and cure again,Snakes to charm and lure again,He'll be hurt by his own blade,By his serpents disobeyed,By his clumsiness bewrayed,By the people laughed to scorn,So 'tis not with juggler born! Pinch of dust or withered flower,Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,Serve his need and shore
As those of old drank mummiaTo fire their limbs of lead,Making dead kings from AfricaStand pandar to their bed;Drunk on the dead, and medicinedWith spiced imperial dust,In a short night they reeled to findTen centuries of lust.So I, from paint, stone, tale, and rhyme,Stuffed love's infinity,And sucked all lovers of all timeTo rarify ecstasy.Helen's the hair shuts out from meVerona's livid skies;Gypsy the lips I press; and seeTwo Antonys in your eyes.The unheard invisible