English

Anno 1672

As t'other night in bed I thinking lay
How I my rent should to my landlord pay,
Since corn, nor wool, nor beast would money make,
Tumbling perplexed, these thoughts kept me awake:
" What will become of this mad world? " quoth I.
What's its disease? What is its remedy?
Where will it issue? Whereto does it tend?
Some ease to misery 'tis to know its end. "
Till servants dreaming, as they used to do,
Snored me asleep. I fell a-dreaming too.
Methought there met the grand Cabal of seven

Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks
Were walking out one Sunday,
Says Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks,
Tomorrow will be Monday.

THE DOORS

A S through the Void we went I heard his plumes
Strike on the darkness. It was passing sweet
To hold his hand and feel that thin air beat
Against our pinions as we winged those glooms
Of Ebon, through which Atropos still dooms
Each soul to pass. Then presently our feet
Found footing on a ledge of dark retreat,
And opposite appeared two doors of tombs
Seen by the star upon the angel's head
That made dim twilight; there I caught my breath:

IN MEMORIAM

A S the wind at play with a spark
 Of fire that glows through the night,
As the speed of the soaring lark
 That wings to the sky his flight,
So swiftly thy soul has sped
 On its upward, wonderful way,
Like the lark, when the dawn is red,
 In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead
 Whom earth in the earth we lay,
While the bearers softly tread,
 And the mourners kneel and pray;
From thy semblance, dumb and stark,
 The soul has taken its flight—

As the war-trumpet drowns the rustic flute,
So when your lyre is heard all strings are mute:
Not vain the labor of those clustering bees
Who on your infant lips spread honey-dew;
Witness great Pan who hymned your melodies,
Pindar, forgetful of his pipes for you!

As the Transatlantic tourists
Have been rowed on the Lagoon,
They have mourned its ancient glories,
They have watched the Germans spoon.

As they 've sailed these famous highways,
As they 've floated on these tides,
The arts that most impressed them
Were the artless German brides.

As they 've listened to the music
Of the poor Italian bands,
Heard the same old tunes repeated,
Seen the Germans holding hands, —

They have wondered why all Venice,
From San Marco to Lagoon,

As the rain falls
so does
your love

bathe every
open
object of the world—
In houses
the priceless dry
rooms
of illicit love
where we live
hear the wash of the
rain—

There
paintings
and fine
metalware
woven stuffs—
all the whorishness
of our
delight
sees
from its window

the spring wash
of your love
the falling
rain—

As the cat
climbed over
the top of

the jamcloset
first the right
forefoot

carefully
then the hind
stepped down

into the pit of
the empty

As sure as we have a fatherland
We are heirs to it one with another,
By common right in an equal band
The rich and his needy brother.
Let each have his voice as we did of old
When a shield was the freeman's measure,
And not all be weighed like sacks of gold
By a merchant counting his treasure.

We fought for our homes together when
Our coast by the foeman was blighted.
It was not alone the gentlemen
Drew sword when the beacons were lighted.
Not only the gentlemen sank to earth
But also the faithful yeomen;

As supple as a tiger's skin
With wine hues and ochre blent,
It lies upon my polished floor —
Four square feet of the orient,
No more than that, yet space enough
On which to build a wonder-dream
Of that far town which, half asleep
And half a myth
Lies 'neath the crescent's golden gleam.

I see Bokhara's minarets
Like sentries o'er the housetops stand,
And far away the dropping sky
Melt in the desert's rippled sand.
Through silence born of noonday heat
And swooning radiance of the air,