As a teenager I would drive Father's
Chevrolet cross-county, given me

reluctantly: “Always keep the tank
half full, boy, half full, ya hear?”

The fuel gauge dipping, dipping
toward Empty, hitting Empty, then

—thrilling!—'way below Empty,
myself driving cross-county

mile after mile, faster and faster,
all night long, this crazy kid driving

the earth's rolling surface,
against all laws, defying chemistry,

rules, and time, riding on nothing
but fumes, pushing luck harder

I

A S a naked man I go
— Through the desert sore afraid,
Holding up my head although
— I'm as frightened as a maid.

The couching lion there I saw
— From barren rocks lift up his eye;
He parts the cactus with his paw,
— He stares at me as I go by.

He would follow on my trace
— If he knew I was afraid,
If he knew my hardy face
— Hides the terrors of a maid.

In the night he rises and
— He stretches forth, he snuffs the air;
He roars and leaps along the sand,
— He creeps and watches everywhere.

Away! these arts no more shall hold me,
Hence with those insidious charms;
Those smiles are vain, then cease to fold me
In the twinings of thy arms.

And once more hop'st thou to detain me
By the blandishments and wiles?
Ah no! Deceit no more shall chain me,
Feigned sighs nor studied smiles.

Believ'st thou I will wear a fetter,
Forged by folly and by pride?
Fair Mischief! learn to know me better,
Be thy spells on others tried.

Yet once again could I believe thee,
Once more would'st thou wrong my love;

James T. FIELDS

As a guest who may not stay
Long and sad farewells to say
Glides with smiling face away,

Of the sweetness and the zest
Of thy happy life possessed
Thou hast left us at thy best.

Warm of heart and clear of brain,
Of thy sun-bright spirit's wane
Thou hast spared us all the pain.

Now that thou hast gone away,
What is left of one to say
Who was open as the day?

What is there to gloss or shun?
Save with kindly voices none
Speak thy name beneath the sun.

Safe thou art on every side,

As a friend to the children commend me the Yak.
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with Astring.

The Tartar who dwells on the plains of Tibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich

As a dare-gale skylark scanted in a dull cage
Man's mounting spirit in his bone-house, mean house, dwells--
That bird beyond the remembering his free fells;
This in drudgery, day-labouring-out life's age.

Though aloft on turf or perch or poor low stage,
Both sing sometimes the sweetest, sweetest spells,
Yet both droop deadly sometimes in their cells
Or wring their barriers in bursts of fear or rage.

Not that the sweet-fowl, song-fowl, needs no rest--
Why, hear him, hear him babble and dropdown to his nest,

Artist, that underneath my table
Thy curious feature hast displayed,
Who, if we may believe the fable,
Wast once a lovely, blooming maid;

Insidious, restless, watchful spider,
Fear no officious damsel's broom;
Extend thine artful structure wider,
And spread thy banners round my room.

Wiped from the great man's costly ceiling,
Thou'rt welcome to my dusty roof;
There thou shall find a peaceful dwelling,
And undisturbed attend the woof,

Whilst I the wond'rous fabric stare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate,

Arthur O'Bower has broken his bands,
And he's come roaring owre the lands;
The King o' Scots, and a' his power
Canna turn Arthur O'Bower.

Art thou the same, thou sobbing winter wind?
The same that rocked the cradle of the May,
That whispered through the leaves in summer noon,
And swelled the anthem of the full-crowned year?
Art thou the same, thou piteous, moaning thing,
Beating against the pane with ghostly hands,
Wailing in agony across the waste,—
Art thou the same—the same?
Art thou the same, thou poor heart bruised and faint,
Treading thy way alone through twilight gloom?
Art thou the same that sang to greet the dawn,
Carolling in the sunlight like a bird,

Art thou not hungry for thy children, Zion,—
Thy sons far-scattered through an alien world?
From earth's four corners, over land and sea,
The heavy-hearted remnant of thy flock
Now send thee greeting: “Know that as the dew
Falls daily on the ancient slopes of Hermon,
So daily on the faces of thy children
Tears of vain-longing fall.” And as for me,
When I remember thee, the Desolate,
My voice is like the jackal's in the night,
A wailing and a lamentation old;
But when a dream of resurrection wakes—
A momentary glory—then my voice