Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

The Elephant is Slow to Mate by D.H. Lawrence

The elephant, the huge old beast,
is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
they wait

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
and drink and browse

and dash in panic through the brake
of forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
together, without a word.

So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
hiding their fire.

Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
for the full repast.

They do not snatch, they do not tear;
their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
till they touch in flood.

Rhapsody On A Windy Night by T.S. Eliot

Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium.

Half-past one,
The street-lamp sputtered.
The street-lamp muttered,
The street-lamp said, "Regard that woman
Who hesitates toward you in the light of the door
Which opens on her like a grin.
You see the border of her dress
Is torn and stained with sand,
And you see the corner of her eye
Twists like a crooked pin."

The memory throws up high and dry
A crowd of twisted things,
A twisted branch upon the beach
Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up
The secret of its skeleton,
Stiff and white.
A broken spring in a factory yard,
Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left
Hard and curled and ready to snap.

Half-past two,
The street-lamp said,
"Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter,
Slips out its tongue
And devours a morsel of rancid butter."
So the hand of the child, automatic,
Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay.
I could see nothing behind that child's eye.
I have seen eyes in the street
Trying to peer through lighted shutters,
And a crab one afternoon in a pool,
An old crab with barnacles on his back,
Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.

Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
A washed-out smallpox cracks her face,
Her hand twists a paper rose,
That smells of dust and eau de Cologne,
She is alone
With all the old nocturnal smells
That cross and cross across her brain."
The reminiscence comes
Of sunless dry geraniums
And dust in crevices,
Smells of chestnuts in the streets,
And female smells in shuttered rooms,
And cigarettes in corridors
And cocktail smells in bars.

The lamp said,
"Four o'clock,
Here is the number on the door.
Memory!
You have the key,
The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair.
Mount.
The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall,
Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life."

The last twist of the knife.

Meet Me In Cognito by Tom Robbins

Meet me in Cognito, baby.
In Cognito we’ll have nothing to hide.
Let’s go incognito, honey,
And let the world believe that we’ve died.

Meet me in Cognito, baby,
Of course we’ll have to color our hair.
The best thing about life in Cognito
Is that everybody’s nobody there.

Meet me in Cognito, darling,
Sure, some may think that it’s rash,
But you’ll look chic incognito
With your fake nose and Groucho mustache.

Meet me in Cognito, baby,
We’ll soon leave our pasts behind us.
The present is always a mystery,
As the future never fails to remind us.

Once we’re alone in Cognito,
We’ll remove all of our clothes very fast,
But though we be naked as jaybirds,
At no time will we take off our masks.

Cinderella went incognito,
And it’s said that she had a ball.
It’s always midnight in Cognito
By the black clock at the end of the hall.

We’re destined to be clandestine,
Incognito is our very last hope.
I’ll meet you where the sun don’t shine,
With a fake I.D. and some dope.

So do join me in Cognito,
You know that I’ll never tell.
We’ll sneak in the back door of Heaven
And stroll unnoticed through Hell.

Incognito
Incognito
There, every day’s a surprise.
Incognito
Incognito
Where truth tells all the best lies.

(Those who travel in Cognito
-Their very lives can depend on a hunch.
They eat intuition for breakfast
And sip cold paranoia at lunch.)

If you won’t meet me in Cognito,
Baby, I’m apt to go out of my head.
But if you really can’t handle incognito
Meet me in Absentia, instead.

The One Who Is Missing is missing,
He can’t run but He certainly can hide.
His ghost car is parked in Cognito,
Do you think He might give us a ride?

You play the game incognito,
You risk paying a very stiff price.
You’ll bet the ranch on Number 13,
Though that number is not on the dice.

No news is good news in Cognito,
Addresses are damn hard to find.
The queen of spades runs the mailroom
And all the postmen are legally blind.

Just because you’re naked
Doesn’t mean you’re sexy,
Just because you’re cynical
Doesn’t mean you’re cool.
You may tell the greatest lies
And wear a brilliant disguise
But you can’t escape the eyes
Of the one who sees right through you.

In the end what will prevail
Is your passion not your tale,
For love is the Holy Grail,
Even in Cognito.

So better listen to me, sister,
And pay close attention, mister:
It’s very good to play the game,
Amuse the gods, avoid the pain,
But don’t trust fortune, don’t trust fame,
Your real self doesn’t know your name
And in that we’re all the same:
We’re all incognito.

Symphony In Yellow by Oscar Wilde

An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

Arethusa by Percy Bysshe Shelly

I
Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,---
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;---
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams;
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.

II

Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook;
And opened a chasm
In the rocks---with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It unsealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below.
And the beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Seen through the torrent's sweep,
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph's flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.

III

'Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair!'
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;
And under the water
The Earth's white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:---
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main
Alpheus rushed behind,---
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

IV

Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearlèd thrones;
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest's night:---
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword-fish dark,
Under the Ocean's foam,
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They passed to their Dorian home.

V

And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;---
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.

Vincent by Don McLean

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and daffodils
Catch the breeze and winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land.
Now I understand what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflecting Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand
Now I understand what you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen
They did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
For they could not love you
But still, your love was true
And when no hope was left inside
On that starry, starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could've told you, Vincent
This world was never meant for one
As beautiful as you.
Starry starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world
And can't forget
Like the strangers that you've met
Ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn, a bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow
Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
And you tried to set them free:
They would not listen
They're not listening still
Perhaps they never will.

Greenland Song by Jules Verne

Dark Is the sky,

The sun sinks wearily;

My trembling heart, with sorrow filled,

Aches drearily !

My sweet child at my songs is smiling still,

While at his tender heart the icicles lie chill.

Child of my dreams I

Thy love doth cheer me;

The cruel biting frost I brave

But to be near thee!

Ah me, Ah me, could these hot tears of mine

But melt the icicles around that heart of thine!

Could we once more

Meet heart to heart,

Thy little hands close clasped in mine,

No more to part.

Then on thy chill heart rays from heaven above

Should fall, and softly melt it with the warmth of love!

The Triple Fool by John Donne

I am two fools, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining poetry ;
But where's that wise man, that would not be I,
If she would not deny ?
Then as th' earth's inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea water's fretful salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my pains
Through rhyme's vexation, I should them allay.
Grief brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth set and sing my pain ;
And, by delighting many, frees again
Grief, which verse did restrain.
To love and grief tribute of verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when 'tis read.
Both are increasèd by such songs,
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fools, do so grow three.
Who are a little wise, the best fools be.

A Strip of Blue by Lucy Larcom

I DO not own an inch of land,
But all I see is mine,--
The orchard and the mowing fields,
The lawns and gardens fine.
The winds my tax-collectors are,
They bring me tithes divine,--
Wild scents and subtle essences,
A tribute rare and free;
And, more magnificent than all,
My window keeps for me
A glimpse of blue immensity,--
A little strip of sea.

Richer am I than he who owns

Great fleets and argosies;

I have a share in every ship

Won by the inland breeze,

To loiter on yon airy road

Above the apple-trees.

I freight them with my untold dreams;

Each bears my own picked crew;

And nobler cargoes wait for them

Than ever India knew,--

My ships that sail into the East

Across that outlet blue.

Sometimes they seem like living shapes,--

The people of the sky,--

Guests in white raiment coming down

From heaven, which is close by;

I call them by familiar names,

As one by one draws nigh.

So white, so light, so spirit-like,

From violet mists they bloom!

The aching wastes of the unknown

Are half reclaimed from gloom,

Since on life's hospitable sea

All souls find sailing-room.

The ocean grows a weariness

With nothing else in sight;

Its east and west, its north and south,

Spread out from morn till night;

We miss the warm, caressing shore,

Its brooding shade and light.

A part is greater than the whole;

By hints are mysteries told.

The fringes of eternity,--

God's sweeping garment-fold,

In that bright shred of glittering sea,

I reach out for and hold.

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl,

Float in upon the mist;

The waves are broken precious stones,--

Sapphire and amethyst

Washed from celestial basement walls,

By suns unsettling kist.

Out through the utmost gates of space,

Past where the gray stars drift,

To the widening Infinite, my soul

Glides on, a vessel swift,

Yet loses not her anchorage

In yonder azure rift.

Here sit I, as a little child;

The threshold of God's door

Is that clear band of chrysoprase;

Now the vast temple floor,

The blinding glory of the dome

I bow my head before.

Thy universe, O God, is home,

In height or depth, to me;

Yet here upon thy footstool green

Content am I to be;

Glad when is oped unto my need

Some sea-like glimpse of Thee.

The Bridge by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I stood on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour,

And the moon rose o'er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection

In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling

And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

Of that lovely night in June,

The blaze of the flaming furnace

Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, oh, how often,

In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight

And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, oh, how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide

Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,

And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.

Yet by Jon Foreman

All attempts have failed
All my heads are tails
She's got teary eyes
I've got reasons why

I'm losing ground and gaining speed
I've lost myself or most of me
I'm headed for the final precipice

But you haven't lost me yet
No, you haven't lost me yet
I'll sing until my heart caves in
No, you haven't lost me yet, yet

These day pass me by
I dream with open eyes
Nightmares haunt my days
Visions blur my nights

I'm so confused
What's true of false
What's fact or fiction after all
I feel like I'm an apparition's pet

But you haven't lost me yet
No, you haven't lost me yet
I'll run until my heart caves in
No, you haven't lost me yet

If it doesn't break, if it doesn't break, if it doesn't break
If it doesn't break your heart, it isn't love
No, if it doesn't break your heart, it's not enough
It's when you're breaking down with your insides coming out
That's when you find out what your heart is made of

And you haven't lost me yet
No, you haven't lost me yet
I'll sing until my heart caves in
No, you haven't lost me yet
'Cause you haven't lost me yet

How To Be Alone by Tanya Davis

A Woman's Answer to Man's Question by Lena Lathrop

Do you know you have asked for the costliest thing
Ever made by the hand above —
A woman's heart, and a woman's life
And a woman's wonderful love?

Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing
As a child might ask for a toy,
Demanding what others have died to win,
With the reckless dash of a boy?

You have written my lesson of duty out,
Man-like you have questioned me;
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul
Until I shall question thee.

You require your mutton shall always be hot,
Your socks and your shirt be whole;
I require your heart to be true as God's stars,
And as pure as heaven your soul.

You require a cook for your mutton and beef;
I require a far better thing.
A seamstress you're wanting for socks and shirts;
I look for a man and a king.

A king for the beautiful realm called home,
And a man that the maker, God,
Shall look upon as he did the first
And say, "It is very good."

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade
From my soft, young cheek one day,
Will you love me then 'mid the falling leaves,
As you did 'mid the bloom of May?

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep,
I may launch my all on its tide?
A loving woman finds heaven or hell
On the day she is made a bride.

I require all things that are grand and true,
All things that a man should be;
If you give all this, I would stake my life
To be all you demand of me.

If you cannot do this — a laundress and cook
You can hire, with little to pay,
But a woman's heart and a woman's life
Are not to be won that way.

Alive by Joy Harjo

The hum of the car
is deadening.
It could sing me
to sleep.

I like to be sung to:
deep-throated music
of the south, horse songs,
of the bare feet sound
of my son walking in his sleep.

Or wheels turning,
spinning
spinning.

Sometimes I am afraid
of the sound
of soundlessness.
Like driving away from you
as you watched me wordlessly
from your sunglasses.
Your face opened up then,
a dark fevered bird.
And dived into me.
No sound of water
but the deep, vibrating
echo
. . . of motion.

I try to touch myself.
There is a field
of talking blood
that I have not been able
to reach,
not even with knives,
not yet.

"I tried every escape"
she told me. "Beer and wine
never worked. Then I
decided to look around, see
what was there. And I saw myself
naked. And alive. Would you
believe that?
Alive."

Alive. This music rocks
me. I drive the interstate,
watch faces come and go on either
side. I am free to be sung to;
I am free to sing. This woman
can cross any line.

The Wanderer (Author Unknown, Translation from hermitary.com)

The solitary looks for the favor of fortune,
For serene waters and a welcoming haven.
But his lot is to plough the wintry seas.
An exile's fate is decreed for him.

Each dawn stirs old sorrows.
The slaughter of lord, kin, village, and keep.
Best to swallow grief, to blot out memories.
Best to seal up the heart's wretchedness.

There is none with whom to speak,
No one alive who will understand.
Best to hide sorrow in one's chest.
The storms of fate suffice to busy me.

Years ago, I buried my master in the ground.
Grieving, I crossed winter seas seeking another:
A generous lord to share hall and treasure,
And I a friendless man seeking order anew.

But frostbite and hunger are my lot now.
My sleep is haunted by dreams of the past:
I kneel acknowledging my master's gift.
Gladly I accept a boon of gold in service.

Then the seabirds' shriek startles me.
I shiver in the dark dawn's frost and hail.
My heart recalls the image of my dream.
The pangs of sorrow and exile reawaken.

The present is overthrown by the past.
Rue rash youth's squandering of fortune.
All things dissipate like sea mist.
There is nothing to cling to but memories.

Is not the wise man's virtue patience?
Oaths and intemperance are follies.
The wise man guards his heart with caution.
The cheerful hall will be desolate in old age.

Everywhere the wind blows through empty ruins.
A few walls are left, covered with frost.
Unburied dead, once proud kin, lie wretched.
They are the sad prey of crows and wolves.

The lands were made desolate in a stroke.
Now the halls and remnants are silent.
Stonework empty, wealth dissipated:
Everywhere the same thing meets the eye.

Horse, rider, ring-giver, chalice,
High seats, hall-sounds -- where are they?
So asks my dark mind, full of grief.
Gone, as if never having been.

Storms blast the rocky cliffs.
Blizzards lash earth and sea.
Winter comes, darkness falls.
The world lies silent and empty.

No men or women to be found.
All in this life is suffering.
No good fortune to be expected.
No abode but a house of sorrow.

The wise man cloaks his heart:
Steadfastness and temperance.
He does well to dissemble his feelings.
Let his faith rest in that alone.

Sylvia Plath reads "Daddy"

The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame.
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

The Indian Serenade by Percy Bysshe Shelly

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me -- who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream--
And the Champak's odours
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
O belovèd as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last

Christians and Others by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

All men go to God in their distress,
seek help and pray for bread and happiness,
deliverance from pain, guilt and death,
All men do, Christians and others

All men go to God in His distress
find Him poor, reviled, without shelter or bread,
watch Him tormented by sin, weakness and death.
Christians stand by God in His hour of grieving

God goes to all men in their distress,
satisfies body and soul with His bread,
dies, crucified for all, Christians and others,
and both alike forgiving.

Triplets by Tom Robbins

I went to Satan's house.

His mailbox was painted black

A fleet of bonecrushers

was parked in his driveway.

The thorns on his rosebushes

were longer than shivs.

And sixty-six roosters scratched

in his front yard, their spurs

smoldering like cheap cigars.

I went to Satan's house.

It was supposed to be an Amway party.

I wanted one of those

hard as hell steak knives.

The ones that can't tell the difference

between mama's sponge cake

and a chunk of rock cocaine.

I went to Satan's house.

I felt a little out of place.

But Satan's twin daughters soon put me at ease.

They tried on funny hats for me,

showed me jewels,

danced around my chair.

They read my fortune

in a bowl of ashes,

let me pet their Dobermans,

and watch while they rinsed out their pink underthings.

I stopped by Satan's house,

I just happened to be in the neighborhood.

Satan came downstairs in a Raiders jacket.

His aura was like burnt rubber,

but his grin could paint a sunrise

on a coal shed wall.

"I see you've met Desire

and Fulfillment," he said,

polishing his monocle with a blood-flecked rag.

"Regret is in the kitchen making coffee."

Second Sowing by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

For whom
The milk ungiven in the breast
When the child is gone?
For whom the love locked up in the heart
That is left alone?
That golden yield
Split sod once, overflowed an August field,
Threshed out in pain upon September's floor,
Now hoarded high in barns, a sterile store.
Break down the bolted door;
Rip open, spread and pour
The grain upon the barren ground
Wherever crack in clod is found.
There is no harvest for the heart alone;
The seed of love must be
Eternally
Resown.

If by Rudyard Kipling (recited by Dennis Hopper, RIP)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

Bedouin Song by Bayard Taylor

From the desert I come to thee,
On a stallion shod with fire,
And the winds are left behind
In the speed of my desire.
Under thy window I stand,
And the midnight hears my cry:
I love thee, I love but thee,
With a love that never shall die.

Just Like Job by Maya Angelou

My Lord, My Lord,
Long have I cried out to Thee
In the heat of the sun,
The cool of the moon,
My screams searched the heavens for Thee.
My God,
When my blanket was nothing but dew,
Rags and bones
Were all I owned.
I chanted your name
Just like Job.

Father, Father,
My life give I gladly to Thee
Deep rivers ahead
High mountains above
My soul wants only Your love
But fears gather round like wolves in the dark
Have You forgotten my name?
Oh, Lord, come to Your child.
Oh, Lord, forget me not.

You said to lean on Your arm
And I'm leaning
You said to trust in Your love
And I'm trusting
You said to call on Your name
And I'm calling
I'm stepping out on Your word.

You said You'd be my protection,
My only and glorious saviour
My beautiful Rose of Sharon,
And I'm stepping out on Your word.
Joy, joy
Your word.
Joy, joy
The wonderful word of the Son of God.

You said that You would take me to glory
To sit down at the welcome table
Rejoice with my mother in heaven
And I'm stepping out on Your Word.

Into the alleys
Into the byways
Into the streets
And the roads
And the highways
Past rumor mongers
And midnight ramblers
Past the liars and the cheaters and the gamblers
On Your word
On Your word.
On the wonderful word of the Son of God.
I'm stepping out on Your word.

Speedy Marie by Frank Black

Had a bit part
An endless reel
It always played in slow-mo
But now it's fast
A spinning wheel
I know the dynamo
My heart
Is cast

Speedy Marie
Ahead of the now
She's better built that's how
She's built for speed
Speedy Marie
Speedy Marie

Oh yes, indeed
I said to me
And so I sing this romaunt
It's not enough
My liberty
There is a thing I want
I need
I love

Juxtaposed in each moment's sight
Everything that I ever saw
And my one delight
Nothing can strike me in such awe
Mouth intricate shapes the voice that speaks
Always it will soothe
Rarer none are the precious cheeks
Is the size of each sculpted tooth
Each lip and each eye
Wise is the tongue, wet of perfect thought
And softest neck where always do I
Lay my clumsy thoughts
She is that most lovely art
Happy are my mind and my soul and my heart

by e.e. cummings

no man,if men are gods;but if gods must
be men,the sometimes only man is this
(most common,for each anguish is his grief;
and,for his joy is more than joy,most rare)

a fiend,if fiends speak truth;if angels burn

by their own genereous completely light,
an angel;or(as various worlds he'll spurn
rather than fail immeasurable fate)
coward,clown,traitor,idiot,dreamer,beast --

such was a poet and shall be and is

--who'll solve the depths of horror to defend
a sunbeam's architecture with his life:
and carve immortal jungles of despair
to hold a mountain's heartbeat in his hand

Clothes Do But Cheat and Cozen Us by Robert Herrick

Away with silks, away with lawn,
Iʼll have no scenes or curtains drawn;
Give me my mistress as she is,
Dressed in her naked simplicities:
For as my heart, even so my eye
Is won with flesh, not drapery.

Four Wolves by Stan Rice

I tell this blackguy
who sits down at the table next to me in Kips
hey man you dropped your matches,
he just nods, big felt hatbrim over all but his beard and his nod,
and he sees my half-full pitcher of beer and he says
hey man can I have a shot of your beer?
and I nod yes and start to give him a drink from my glass
when this dude gets up and says,
I’ll get my own glass,
sits down, pours it full and then takes one of my cigarettes
and says to me I’m busted, disgusted, and not to be trusted,
and I say Well, I don’t know about the first two,
and he laughs and claps his hands softly like
pleased at the innuendo of my comeback and then
the waitress comes up and to his two sort-of-buddies and tells them
they can’t just sit there without ordering something, so one of them says
hey man, can we sit with you, meanwhile
I’ve said nothing because look at what telling the dude
he dropped his matches
got me, so these other two dudes slide over to my table
and the one called Larry starts talking, mostly jiveass
lies, one after another stories about pussy and fights
in Chicago and a whole lot of stories about money and I just sit there
staring off real stone-like for awhile then
I pick up the pitcher and get it refilled
and two more glasses, which generosity you dig
these guys don’t even acknowledge,
so they all pour themselves beer and Larry says
Now Steve here he’s been with some ugly women,
if you want a authority on ugliness Steve here
went into the ugly forest and the trees fell on his
HEAD,
and Larry says, Man Steve he know women hurt people’s feelins
just lookin at em,
and he tells about how he got stabbed three times and
six doctors was workin over him and when that dude stabbed me
I didn’t hardly feel it, it was like somebody barely tappin you
just like this, I mean bein stabbed don’t hurt man it don’t hurt and
I thought shit man, how come this dude ain’t resistin don’t he know
we are in a fight,
and Steve says hmmph occasionally,
and this goes on about twenty minutes during which
time they’ve hardly even touched their beers, which seems weird to me,
so I get up and go to the john and when I come back
they notice me, all three at once, and Larry says
Say man what’s your name, and I tell him and he shakes hands
and Steve says his name is “Steve” and I see his eyes for the first time
under his big turned-down mean hatbrim and the other guy says
his name’s Jo-Mo and I shake his hand
Berkeley style
and their eyes fall on me sincerely, which I interpret to mean
that they dig I haven’t laughed artifically at their jive
unless the story really had wit to it, and they know
most white cats fake it 90 percent of the time
when around black guys and they don’t even have
no talent to their lies, and all of a sudden
we were just shimmering there at the table
and nothing mattered & they were using language
& we were two floors up in this neon place waitresses
in black miniskirts and white aprons and the TV on
over the bar and the Budweiser ad horses rotating in the plastic
racetrack & the guy wiping out the big pizza oven
with a broom on a pole & other people at squares
of wood lit from above tables and pitchers of beer
dots of foam hurrying up & He’s So Vain
playing on the jukebox & Dueling Banjos
& the bartender chewing a toothpick & there we were
outside all butchery
of TIME or CONTENT or RELEVANCE or NECESSITY
like four guys talking and shimmering on a stage in a play
written by the wolfman
in us all.

Series of Dreams by Bob Dylan

I was thinking of a series of dreams
Where nothing comes up to the top
Everything stays down where it's wounded
And comes to a permanent stop
Wasn't thinking of anything specific
Like in a dream, when someone wakes up and screams
Nothing too very scientific
Just thinking of a series of dreams

Thinking of a series of dreams
Where the time and the tempo fly
And there's no exit in any direction
'Cept the one that you can't see with your eyes
Wasn't making any great connection
Wasn't falling for any intricate scheme
Nothing that would pass inspection
Just thinking of a series of dreams

Dreams where the umbrella is folded
Into the path you are hurled
And the cards are no good that you're holding
Unless they're from another world

In one, numbers were burning
In another, I witnessed a crime
In one, I was running, and in another
All I seemed to be doing was climb
Wasn't looking for any special assistance
Not going to any great extremes
I'd already gone the distance
Just thinking of a series of dreams

Tossing and Turning by John Updike

The spirit has infinite facets, but the body
confiningly few sides.

There is the left,
the right, the back, the belly, and tempting
in-betweens, northeasts and northwests,
that tip the heart and soon pinch circulation
in one or another arm.

Yet we turn each time
with fresh hope, believing that sleep
will visit us here, descending like an angel
down the angle our flesh’s sextant sets,
tilted toward that unreachable star
hung in the night between our eyebrows, whence
dreams and good luck flow.

Uncross
your ankles. Unclench your philosophy.
This bed was invented by others; know we go
to sleep less to rest than to participate
in the twists of another world.
This churning is our journey.

It ends,
can only end, around a corner
we do not know
we are turning.

Risk by Anaïs Nin

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

Haiku (Birds singing...) by Jack Kerouac (happy birthday)

Birds singing
in the dark
—Rainy dawn.

Husband and Wife by Robert Lowell

Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;
in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,
abandoned, almost Dionysian.
At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,
blossoms on our magnolia ignite
the morning with their murderous five days' white.
All night I've held your hand,
as if you had
a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad--
its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye--
and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite,
clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:
you were in our twenties, and I,
once hand on glass
and heart in mouth,
outdrank the Rahvs in the heat
of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet--
too boiled and shy
and poker-faced to make a pass,
while the shrill verve
of your invective scorched the traditional South.

Now twelve years later, you turn your back.
Sleepless, you hold
your pillow to your hollows like a child;
your old-fashioned tirade--
loving, rapid, merciless--
breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Standing by My Bed by Sappho

Standing by my bed
in gold sandals
Dawn that very
moment awoke me

The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson

I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat -- and a voice beat
More instant than the Feet --
"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."

I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of his approach would clash it to :
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars ;
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn : Be sudden -- to Eve : Be soon ;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover--
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see !
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue ;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue ;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet :--
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat--
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."

I sought no more that after which I strayed,
In face of man or maid ;
But still within the little children's eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me !
I turned me to them very wistfully ;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's -- share
With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship ;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine with you caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured daïs,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."
So it was done :
I in their delicate fellowship was one --
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies ;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spumèd of the wild sea-snortings ;
All that's born or dies
Rose and drooped with ; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine ;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine ;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat ;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah ! we know not what each other says,
These things and I ; in sound I speak--
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth ;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts o' her tenderness ;
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy ;
And past those noisèd Feet
A Voice comes yet more fleet --
"Lo ! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."

Naked I wait thy Love's uplifted stroke !
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee ;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me ; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years --
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist ;
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding ; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
Ah ! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount ?
Ah ! must --
Designer infinite !--
Ah ! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it ?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust ;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is ; what is to be ?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds ;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity ;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpsed turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned ;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death ?

Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit ;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea :
"And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard ?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest me !
"Strange, piteous, futile thing !
Wherefore should any set thee love apart ?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),
"And human love needs human meriting :
How hast thou merited --
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot ?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art !
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me ?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home :
Rise, clasp My hand, and come !"
Halts by me that footfall :
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly ?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest !
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest me."

On Children by Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

I looked into your face and knew... by Ruth Bell Graham

I looked into your face and knew
that you were true;
those clear, deep eyes awoke in me
a trust in you.

I’d dreamt of shoulders broad and straight,
one built to lead;
I met you once and knew that you
were all I need.

You did not have to say a word
to make me feel
that will, completely in control,
was made of steel.

I’d dreamt of dashing love and bold,
life wild with zest;
but when with you my heart was stilled
to perfect rest.

And how? I could not understand,
it seemed so odd:
till on my heart it quietly dawned
– love is of God!

The Country of the Blind by C.S. Lewis

Hard light bathed them-a whole nation of eyeless men,
Dark bipeds not aware how they were maimed. A long
Process, clearly, a slow curse,
Drained through centuries, left them thus.

At some transitional stage, then, a luckless few,
No doubt, must have had eyes after the up-to-date,
Normal type had achieved snug
Darkness, safe from the guns of heavn;

Whose blind mouths would abuse words that belonged to their
Great-grandsires, unabashed, talking of light in some
Eunuch'd, etiolated,
Fungoid sense, as a symbol of

Abstract thoughts. If a man, one that had eyes, a poor
Misfit, spoke of the grey dawn or the stars or green-
Sloped sea waves, or admired how
Warm tints change in a lady's cheek,

None complained he had used words from an alien tongue,
None question'd. It was worse. All would agree 'Of course,'
Came their answer. "We've all felt
Just like that." They were wrong. And he


Knew too much to be clear, could not explain. The words --
Sold, raped flung to the dogs -- now could avail no more;
Hence silence. But the mouldwarps,
With glib confidence, easily

Showed how tricks of the phrase, sheer metaphors could set
Fools concocting a myth, taking the worlds for things.
Do you think this a far-fetched
Picture? Go then about among

Men now famous; attempt speech on the truths that once,
Opaque, carved in divine forms, irremovable,
Dear but dear as a mountain-
Mass, stood plain to the inward eye.

Mock On, Mock On, Voltaire, Rousseau by William Blake

Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, mock on; 'tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back they blind the mocking eye,
But still in Israel's paths they shine.

The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton's Particles of Light
Are sands upon the Red Sea shore,
Where Israel's tents do shine so bright.

The Old Chimaeras, Old Receipts by Robert Louis Stevenson

The old Chimaeras, old receipts
For making "happy land,"
The old political beliefs
Swam close before my hand.

The grand old communistic myths
In a middle state of grace,
Quite dead, but not yet gone to Hell,
And walking for a space,

Quite dead, and looking it, and yet
All eagerness to show
The Social-Contract forgeries
By Chatterton - Rousseau -

A hundred such as these I tried,
And hundreds after that,
I fitted Social Theories
As one would fit a hat!

Full many a marsh-fire lured me on,
I reached at many a star,
I reached and grasped them and behold -
The stump of a cigar!

All through the sultry sweltering day
The sweat ran down my brow,
The still plains heard my distant strokes
That have been silenced now.

This way and that, now up, now down,
I hailed full many a blow.
Alas! beneath my weary arm
The thicket seemed to grow.

I take the lesson, wipe my brow
And throw my axe aside,
And, sorely wearied, I go home
In the tranquil eventide.

And soon the rising moon, that lights
The eve of my defeat,
Shall see me sitting as of yore
By my old master's feet.

More and More by Margaret Atwood

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.

The Lonely Say by Avraham ben Yitshak

Day to day bequeathes a glimmering sun
and night laments for night
and summer after summer is gathered up in fallen leaves
and the world sings from its sorrow

and tomorrow we shall die speechless
and upon the day of our leaving, we shall stand before the gate at closing time
and when the heart rejoices that indeed God has brought us close to Him -
it will then repent from joy and will tremble in fear of treachery.

Day to day bears a burning sun
and night after night pours out stars;
upon the lips of the lonely, song comes to a halt:
into seven paths we part ways, and by one we return.

The Red Wheelbarrow by William C. Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

The Little Doll by Charles Kingsley

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;
Her cheeks were so red and so white; dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.

But I lost my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day;
And I cried for her more than a week, dears;
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,
As I played in the heath one day:
Folks say she is terrible changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled:
Yet for old sakes' sake she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.

Impression De Voyage by Oscar Wilde

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca's cliff, Lycaon's snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls' laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:- when 'gan the West to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

KATAKOLO.

The Nightmare by Joyce Carol Oates

She wakes from the pillow
body hammering to the hovering
above her
the withheld beating of wings

don't move

it is a whisper
she can't quite hear
she goes rigid with its certainty
a child's fatal sense
of proportion
don't move

a careless move will unhinge
the universe

in a network of nerves like wires
she lies rigid waiting
for the presence to withdraw
for the withdrawal of the vibrating
of dim sacred words passing
the noise of terror passing
the amorous wings fading
to daylight

A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty by Ogden Nash

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty-nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty, to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then--
How old is Spring, Miranda?

A Visit to the Asylum by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Once from a big, big building,
When I was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows
Would smile at me and call.

And in the hard wee gardens
Such pleasant men would hoe:
"Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!"—
It was so red, you know.

They cut me coloured asters
With shears so sharp and neat,
They brought me grapes and plums and pears
And pretty cakes to eat.

And out of all the windows,
No matter where we went,
The merriest eyes would follow me
And make me compliment.

There were a thousand windows,
All latticed up and down.
And up to all the windows,
When we went back to town,

The queer folk put their faces,
As gentle as could be;
"Come again, little girl!" they called, and I
Called back, "You come see me!"