Life and Existence

In this world of ours,
Yo no naka wa kutte hako shite nete okite
Sate sono ato wa shinuru bakari zo
In this world of ours,
We eat only to cast out,
Sleep only to wake,
And what comes after all that
Is simply to die at last.

Collection of Six Haiku
Waking in the night;
the lamp is low,
the oil freezing.
It has rained enough
to turn the stubble on the field
black.
Winter rain
falls on the cow-shed;
a cock crows.
The leeks
newly washed white,-
how cold it is!
The sea darkens;
the voices of the wild ducks
are faintly white.
Ill on a journey;
my dreams wander
over a withered moor.

A monk sips morning tea
A monk sips morning tea,
it's quiet,
the chrysanthemum's flowering.
Translated by Robert Hass

A caterpillar
A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
still not a butterfly.
Translated by Robert Hass

The People's Liberation Army Captures Nanking

Over Chungshan swept a storm, headlong,
Our mighty army, a million strong, has crossed the Great River.
The City, a tiger crouching, a dragon curling, outshines its ancient glories;
In heroic triumph heaven and earth have been overturned.
With power and to spare we must pursue the tottering foe
And not ape Hsiang Yu the conqueror seeking idle fame.
Were Nature sentient, she too would pass from youth to age,
But Man's world is mutable, seas become mulberry fields.

Reply to Comrade Kuo Mo-Jo

On this tiny globe
A few flies dash themselves against the wall,
Humming without cease,
Sometimes shrilling,
Sometimes moaning.
Ants on the locust tree assume a great-nation swagger
And mayflies lightly plot to topple the giant tree.
The west wind scatters leaves over Changan,
And the arrows are flying, twanging.
So many deeds cry out to be done,
And always urgently;
The world rolls on,
Time presses.
Ten thousand years are too long,
Seize the day, seize the hour!
The Four Seas are rising, clouds and waters raging,
The Five Continents are rocking, wind and thunder roaring.
Our force is irresistible,
Away with all pests!

Reply to Mr. Liu Ya-Tzu

I still remember our drinking tea in Kwangchow
And your asking for verses in Chungking as the leaves yellowed.
Back in the old capital after thirty-one years,
At the season of falling flowers I read your polished lines.
Beware of heartbreak with grievance overfull,
Range far your eye over long vistas.
Do not say the waters of Kunming Lake are too shallow,
For watching fish they are better than Fuchun River.

Peitaiho


A rainstorm sweeps down on this northern land,
White breakers leap to the sky.
No fishing boats off Chinwangtao
Are seen on the boundless ocean.
Where are they gone?
Nearly two thousand years ago
Wielding his whip, the Emperor Wu of Wei
Rode eastward to Chiehshih; his poem survives.
Today the autumn wind still sighs,
But the world has changed!

Peitaiho


A rainstorm sweeps down on this northern land,
White breakers leap to the sky.
No fishing boats off Chinwangtao
Are seen on the boundless ocean.
Where are they gone?
Nearly two thousand years ago
Wielding his whip, the Emperor Wu of Wei
Rode eastward to Chiehshih; his poem survives.
Today the autumn wind still sighs,
But the world has changed!

You Are Old Father William

"You are old, father William," the young man said,
"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head Do
you think, at your age, it is right?


"In my youth," father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;
But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again."


"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And you have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a backsomersault
in at the door Pray
what is the reason for that?"


"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment one
shilling a box Allow
me to sell you a couple?"


"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak Pray,
how did you mange to do it?"


"In my youth," said his fater, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
Has lasted the rest of my life."


"You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose
That your eye was as steady as every;
Yet you balanced an eel on the tend of your nose What
made you so awfully clever?"


"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?


Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs.

The Aged Aged Man

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
Asitting
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 butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into muttonpies,
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 plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To 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 mountainrill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's MacassarOil&
mdash;
Yet twopencehalfpenny
is all
They give me for my toil."


But I was thinking of a way
To 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' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or 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 knolls
For wheels of hansomcabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth—
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health."


I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.


And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a righthand
foot
Into a lefthand
shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know—
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose 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
Asitting
on a gate.

The Aged Aged Man

I'll tell thee everything I can;
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
Asitting
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 butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into muttonpies,
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 plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To 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 mountainrill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's MacassarOil&
mdash;
Yet twopencehalfpenny
is all
They give me for my toil."


But I was thinking of a way
To 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' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or 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 knolls
For wheels of hansomcabs.
And that's the way" (he gave a wink)
"By which I get my wealth—
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health."


I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.


And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a righthand
foot
Into a lefthand
shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know—
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow,
Whose 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
Asitting
on a gate.

She's All My Fancy Painted Him

She's all my fancy painted him
(I make no idle boast);
If he or you had lost a limb,
Which would have suffered most?


He said that you had been to her,
And seen me here before;
But, in another character,
She was the same of yore.


There was not one that spoke to us,
Of all that thronged the street:
So he sadly got into a 'bus,
And pattered with his feet.


They sent him word I had not gone
(We know it to be true);
If she should push the matter on,
What would become of you?


They gave her one, the gave me two,
They gave us three or more;
They all returned from him to you,
Though they were mine before.


If I or she should chance to be
Involved in this affair,
He trusts to you to set them free,
Exactly as we were.


It seemed to me that you had been
(Before she had this fit)
An obstacle, that came between
Him, and ourselves, and it.


Don't let him know she liked them best,
For this must ever be
A secret, kept from all the rest,
Between yourself and me.

Punctuality


Man Naturally loves delay,
And to procrastinate;
Business put off from day to day
Is always done to late.


Let ever hour be in its place
Firm fixed, nor loosely shift,
And well enjoy the vacant space,
As though a birthday gift.


And when the hour arrives, be there,
Where'er that "there" may be;
Uncleanly hands or ruffled hair
Let no one ever see.


If dinner at "halfpast"
be placed,
At "halfpast"
then be dressed.
If at a "quarterpast"
make haste
To be down with the rest


Better to be before you time,
Than e're to be behind;
To open the door while strikes the chime,
That shows a punctual mind.


Moral:


Let punctuality and care
Seize every flitting hour,
So shalt thou cull a floweret fair,
E'en from a fading flower

Phantasmagoria CANTO VI ( Dyscomfyture )

As one who strives a hill to climb,
Who never climbed before:
Who finds it, in a little time,
Grow every moment less sublime,
And votes the thing a bore:


Yet, having once begun to try,
Dares not desert his quest,
But, climbing, ever keeps his eye
On one small hut against the sky
Wherein he hopes to rest:


Who climbs till nerve and force are spent,
With many a puff and pant:
Who still, as rises the ascent,
In language grows more violent,
Although in breath more scant:


Who, climbing, gains at length the place
That crowns the upward track.
And, entering with unsteady pace,
Receives a buffet in the face
That lands him on his back:


And feels himself, like one in sleep,
Glide swiftly down again,
A helpless weight, from steep to steep,
Till, with a headlong giddy sweep,
He drops upon the plain


So I, that had resolved to bring
Conviction to a ghost,
And found it quite a different thing
From any human arguing,
Yet dared not quit my post


But, keeping still the end in view
To which I hoped to come,
I strove to prove the matter true
By putting everything I knew
Into an axiom:


Commencing every single phrase
With 'therefore' or 'because,'
I blindly reeled, a hundred ways,
About the syllogistic maze,
Unconscious where I was.


Quoth he "That's regular claptrap:
Don't bluster any more.
Now DO be cool and take a nap!
Such a ridiculous old chap



Was never seen before!


"You're like a man I used to meet,
Who got one day so furious
In arguing, the simple heat
Scorched both his slippers off his feet!"
I said "THAT'S VERY CURIOUS!"


"Well, it IS curious, I agree,
And sounds perhaps like fibs:
But still it's true as true can be As
sure as your name's Tibbs," said he.
I said "My name's NOT Tibbs."


"NOT Tibbs!" he cried his
tone became
A shade or two less hearty "
Why, no," said I. "My proper name
Is Tibbets "
"Tibbets?" "Aye, the same."
"Why, then YOU'RE NOT THE PARTY!"


With that he struck the board a blow
That shivered half the glasses.
"Why couldn't you have told me so
Three quarters of an hour ago,
You prince of all the asses?


"To walk four miles through mud and rain,
To spend the night in smoking,
And then to find that it's in vain And
I've to do it all again It's
really TOO provoking!


"Don't talk!" he cried, as I began
To mutter some excuse.
"Who can have patience with a man
That's got no more discretion than
An idiotic goose?


"To keep me waiting here, instead
Of telling me at once
That this was not the house!" he said.
"There, that'll do be
off to bed!
Don't gape like that, you dunce!"


"It's very fine to throw the blame
On ME in such a fashion!
Why didn't you enquire my name
The very minute that you came?"
I answered in a passion.


"Of course it worries you a bit
To come so far on foot



But how was I to blame for it?"
"Well, well!" said he. "I must admit
That isn't badly put.


"And certainly you've given me
The best of wine and victual Excuse
my violence," said he,
"But accidents like this, you see,
They put one out a little.


"'Twas MY fault after all, I find Shake
hands, old Turniptop!"
The name was hardly to my mind,
But, as no doubt he meant it kind,
I let the matter drop.


"Goodnight,
old Turniptop,
goodnight!
When I am gone, perhaps
They'll send you some inferior Sprite,
Who'll keep you in a constant fright
And spoil your soundest naps.


"Tell him you'll stand no sort of trick;
Then, if he leers and chuckles,
You just be handy with a stick
(Mind that it's pretty hard and thick)
And rap him on the knuckles!


"Then carelessly remark 'Old coon!
Perhaps you're not aware
That, if you don't behave, you'll soon
Be chuckling to another tune And
so you'd best take care!'


"That's the right way to cure a Sprite
Of such like goingson
But
gracious me! It's getting light!
Goodnight,
old Turniptop,
goodnight!"
A nod, and he was gone.

Melancholetta


With saddest music all day long
She soothed her secret sorrow:
At night she sighed "I fear 'twas wrong
Such cheerful words to borrow.
Dearest, a sweeter, sadder song
I'll sing to thee tomorrow."


I thanked her, but I could not say
That I was glad to hear it:
I left the house at break of day,
And did not venture near it
Till time, I hoped, had worn away
Her grief, for nought could cheer it!


My dismal sister! Couldst thou know
The wretched home thou keepest!
Thy brother, drowned in daily woe,
Is thankful when thou sleepest;
For if I laugh, however low,
When thou'rt awake, thou weepest!


I took my sister t'other day
(Excuse the slang expression)
To Sadler's Wells to see the play
In hopes the new impression
Might in her thoughts, from grave to gay
Effect some slight digression.


I asked three gay young dogs from town
To join us in our folly,
Whose mirth, I thought, might serve to drown
My sister's melancholy:
The lively Jones, the sportive Brown,
And Robinson the jolly.


The maid announced the meal in tones
That I myself had taught her,
Meant to allay my sister's moans
Like oil on troubled water:
I rushed to Jones, the lively Jones,
And begged him to escort her.


Vainly he strove, with ready wit,
To joke about the weather To
ventilate the last 'ON DIT' To
quote the price of leather She
groaned "Here I and Sorrow sit:
Let us lament together!"


I urged "You're wasting time, you know:
Delay will spoil the venison."
"My heart is wasted with my woe!



There is no rest in
Venice, on
The Bridge of Sighs!" she quoted low
From Byron and from Tennyson.


I need not tell of soup and fish
In solemn silence swallowed,
The sobs that ushered in each dish,
And its departure followed,
Nor yet my suicidal wish
To BE the cheese I hollowed.


Some desperate attempts were made
To start a conversation;
"Madam," the sportive Brown essayed,
"Which kind of recreation,
Hunting or fishing, have you made
Your special occupation?"


Her lips curved downwards instantly,
As if of indiarubber.
"Hounds IN FULL CRY I like," said she:
(Oh how I longed to snub her!)
"Of fish, a whale's the one for me,
IT IS SO FULL OF BLUBBER!"


The night's performance was "King John."
"It's dull," she wept, "and soso!"
Awhile I let her tears flow on,
She said they soothed her woe so!
At length the curtain rose upon
'Bombastes Furioso.'


In vain we roared; in vain we tried
To rouse her into laughter:
Her pensive glances wandered wide
From orchestra to rafter "
TIER UPON TIER!" she said, and sighed;
And silence followed after.

Lays of Sorrow

The day was wet, the rain fell souse
Like jars of strawberry jam, [1] a
sound was heard in the old henhouse,
A beating of a hammer.
Of stalwart form, and visage warm,
Two youths were seen within it,
Splitting up an old tree into perches for their poultry
At a hundred strokes [2] a minute.
The work is done, the hen has taken
Possession of her nest and eggs,
Without a thought of eggs and bacon, [3]
(Or I am very much mistaken happy)
She turns over each shell,
To be sure that all's well,
Looks into the straw
To see there's no flaw,
Goes once round the house, [4]
Half afraid of a mouse,
Then sinks calmly to rest
On the top of her nest,
First doubling up each of her legs.
Time rolled away, and so did every shell,
"Small by degrees and beautifully less,"
As the large mother with a powerful spell [5]
Forced each in turn its contents to express, [6]
But ah! "imperfect is expression,"
Some poet said, I don't care who,
If you want to know you must go elsewhere,
One fact I can tell, if you're willing to hear,
He never attended a Parliament Session,
For I'm certain that if he had ever been there,
Full quickly would he have changed his ideas,
With the hissings, the hootings, the groans and the cheers.
And as to his name it is pretty clear
That it wasn't me and it wasn't you!


And so it fell upon a day,
(That is, it never rose again)
A chick was found upon the hay,
Its little life had ebbed away.
No longer frolicsome and gay,
No longer could it run or play.
"And must we, chicken, must we part?"
Its master [7] cried with bursting heart,
And voice of agony and pain.
So one, whose ticket's marked "Return", [8]
When to the lonely roadside station
He flies in fear and perturbation,
Thinks of his homethe
hissing urnThen
runs with flying hat and hair,
And, entering, finds to his despair
He's missed the very last train. [9]



Too long it were to tell of each conjecture
Of chicken suicide, and poultry victim,
The deadly frown, the stern and dreary lecture,
The timid guess, "perhaps some needle pricked him!"
The din of voice, the words both loud and many,
The sob, the tear, the sigh that none could smother,
Till all agreed "a shilling to a penny
It killed itself, and we acquit the mother!"
Scarce was the verdict spoken,
When that still calm was broken,
A childish form hath burst into the throng;
With tears and looks of sadness,
That bring no news of gladness,
But tell too surely something hath gone wrong!
"The sight I have come upon
The stoutest heart [10] would sicken,
That nasty hen has been and gone
And killed another chicken!"

Four Riddles

I

There was an ancient City, stricken down
With a strange frenzy, and for many a day
They paced from morn to eve the crowded town,
And danced the night away.


I asked the cause: the aged man grew sad:
They pointed to a building gray and tall,
And hoarsely answered "Step inside, my lad,
And then you'll see it all."


Yet what are all such gaieties to me
Whose thoughts are full of indices and surds?


x*x + 7x + 53 = 11/3


But something whispered "It will soon be done:
Bands cannot always play, nor ladies smile:
Endure with patience the distasteful fun
For just a little while!"


A change came o'er my Vision it
was night:
We clove a pathway through a frantic throng:
The steeds, wildplunging,
filled us with affright:
The chariots whirled along.


Within a marble hall a river ran A
living tide, half muslin and half cloth:
And here one mourned a broken wreath or fan,
Yet swallowed down her wrath;


And here one offered to a thirsty fair
(His words halfdrowned
amid those thunders tuneful)
Some frozen viand (there were many there),
A toothache
in each spoonful.


There comes a happy pause, for human strength
Will not endure to dance without cessation;
And every one must reach the point at length
Of absolute prostration.


At such a moment ladies learn to give,
To partners who would urge them overmuch,
A flat and yet decided negative Photographers
love such.


There comes a welcome summons hope
revives,
And fading eyes grow bright, and pulses quicken:
Incessant pop the corks, and busy knives
Dispense the tongue and chicken.



Flushed with new life, the crowd flows back again:
And all is tangled talk and mazy motion Much
like a waving field of golden grain,
Or a tempestuous ocean.


And thus they give the time, that Nature meant
For peaceful sleep and meditative snores,
To ceaseless din and mindless merriment
And waste of shoes and floors.


And One (we name him not) that flies the flowers,
That dreads the dances, and that shuns the salads,
They doom to pass in solitude the hours,
Writing acrosticballads.


How late it grows! The hour is surely past
That should have warned us with its double knock?
The twilight wanes, and morning comes at last "
Oh, Uncle, what's o'clock?"


The Uncle gravely nods, and wisely winks.
It MAY mean much, but how is one to know?
He opens his mouth yet
out of it, methinks,
No words of wisdom flow.


II


Empress of Art, for thee I twine
This wreath with all too slender skill.
Forgive my Muse each halting line,
And for the deed accept the will!


O day of tears! Whence comes this spectre grim,
Parting, like Death's cold river, souls that love?
Is not he bound to thee, as thou to him,
By vows, unwhispered here, yet heard above?


And still it lives, that keen and heavenward flame,
Lives in his eye, and trembles in his tone:
And these wild words of fury but proclaim
A heart that beats for thee, for thee alone!


But all is lost: that mighty mind o'erthrown,
Like sweet bells jangled, piteous sight to see!
"Doubt that the stars are fire," so runs his moan,
"Doubt Truth herself, but not my love for thee!"


A sadder vision yet: thine aged sire
Shaming his hoary locks with treacherous wile!



And dost thou now doubt Truth to be a liar?
And wilt thou die, that hast forgot to smile?


Nay, get thee hence! Leave all thy winsome ways
And the faint fragrance of thy scattered flowers:
In holy silence wait the appointed days,
And weep away the leadenfooted
hours.


III.
The air is bright with hues of light
And rich with laughter and with singing:
Young hearts beat high in ecstasy,
And banners wave, and bells are ringing:
But silence falls with fading day,
And there's an end to mirth and play.
Ah, welladay


Rest your old bones, ye wrinkled crones!
The kettle sings, the firelight dances.
Deep be it quaffed, the magic draught
That fills the soul with golden fancies!
For Youth and Pleasance will not stay,
And ye are withered, worn, and gray.
Ah, welladay!


O fair cold face! O form of grace,
For human passion madly yearning!
O weary air of dumb despair,
From marble won, to marble turning!
"Leave us not thus!" we fondly pray.
"We cannot let thee pass away!"
Ah, welladay!


IV.
My First is singular at best:
More plural is my Second:
My Third is far the pluralest So
pluralplural,
I protest
It scarcely can be reckoned!


My First is followed by a bird:
My Second by believers
In magic art: my simple Third
Follows, too often, hopes absurd
And plausible deceivers.


My First to get at wisdom tries A
failure melancholy!



My Second men revered as wise:
My Third from heights of wisdom flies
To depths of frantic folly.


My First is ageing day by day:
My Second's age is ended:
My Third enjoys an age, they say,
That never seems to fade away,
Through centuries extended.


My Whole? I need a poet's pen
To paint her myriad phases:
The monarch, and the slave, of men A
mountainsummit,
and a den
Of dark and deadly mazes


A flashing light a
fleeting shade Beginning,
end, and middle
Of all that human art hath made
Or wit devised! Go, seek HER aid,
If you would read my riddle!

A Game of Fives

Five little girls, of Five, Four, Three, Two, One:
Rolling on the hearthrug, full of tricks and fun.


Five rosy girls, in years from Ten to Six:
Sitting down to lessons no
more time for tricks.


Five growing girls, from Fifteen to Eleven:
Music, Drawing, Languages, and food enough for seven!


Five winsome girls, from Twenty to Sixteen:
Each young man that calls, I say "Now tell me which you MEAN!"


Five dashing girls, the youngest Twentyone:
But, if nobody proposes, what is there to be done?


Five showy girls but
Thirty is an age
When girls may be ENGAGING, but they somehow don't ENGAGE.


Five dressy girls, of Thirtyone
or more:
So gracious to the shy young men they snubbed so much before!


Five PASSE girls Their
age? Well, never mind!
We jog along together, like the rest of human kind:
But the quondam "careless bachelor" begins to think he knows
The answer to that ancient problem "how the money goes"!

A Boat beneath a Sunny Sky

A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July Children
three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear Long
has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream Lingering
in the golden dream Life,
what is it but a dream?


THE END

A Boat beneath a Sunny Sky

A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July Children
three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear Long
has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream Lingering
in the golden dream Life,
what is it but a dream?


THE END

Sylvester’s Dying Bed

I woke up this mornin’
’Bout half-past three.
All the womens in town
Was gathered round me.


Sweet gals was a-moanin’,
“Sylvester’s gonna die!”
And a hundred pretty mamas
Bowed their heads to cry.


I woke up little later
’Bout half-past fo’,
The doctor ‘n’ undertaker’s
Both at ma do’.


Black gals was a-beggin’,
“You can’t leave us here!”
Brown-skins cryin’, “Daddy!
Honey! Baby! Don’t go, dear!”


But I felt ma time’s a-comin’,
And I know’d I’s dyin’ fast.
I seed the River Jerden
A-creepin’ muddy past—
But I’s still Sweet Papa ’Vester,
Yes, sir! Long as life do last!


So I hollers, “Com’ere, babies,
Fo’ to love yo’ daddy right!”
And I reaches up to hug ’em—
When the Lawd put out the light.


Then everything was darkness
In a great ... big ... night.

Snake


He glides so swiftly
Back into the grass-
Gives me the courtesy of road
To let me pass,
That I am half ashamed
To seek a stone
To kill him.

Sick Room

How quiet
It is in this sick room
Where on the bed
A silent woman lies between two lovers-
Life and Death,
And all three covered with a sheet of pain.