Cyanogen seas are surging
On fierce cinnabarine strands,
Where white Amazons are marching,
Through the radiance of the sands.

Oh, could only lambent love-flame
Be like the surging sea,
Deluge the red of the desert
And drown the white virgins in me!

A-down the road and gun in hand
Comes Whiskey Bill, mad Whiskey Bill;
A-lookin' for some place to land
Comes Whiskey Bill.
An' everybody'd like to be
Ten miles away behind a tree
When on his joyous, aching spree
Starts Whiskey Bill.

The times have changed since you made love,
O Whiskey Bill, O Whiskey Bill!
The happy sun grinned up above
At Whiskey Bill.
And down the middle of the street
The sheriff comes on toe and feet
A-wishin' for one fretful peek
At Whiskey Bill.

The cows go grazing o'er the lea, —

" A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter. "
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year, or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

A-begging buttermilk I will go,
I know I shan't be a beggar long,
For there's an old woman at yonder farm
Will give me plenty if I ask for some.

I'll sell it all for one pennee,
Fol the lol the laddle dee,
And with that penny I will buy eggs,
And I shall have seven for my pennee.

I'll set my seven eggs under a hen,
If cocks then they should chance to be.
I'll make seven young gamesters out of them,
And there will be seven half-crowns for me.

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits;--
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Shakespeare! “with all thy faults, (and few have more,)
I love thee still,” and still will con thee o'er.
Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart,
Gave thee of virtue—then, of vice a part,

Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee,
Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee:
But admiration now, and sorrow join;
His works we reverence, while we pity thine.

Last night in bed
I mouthed a prayer
of my own composition.

It sounded offhand, it was carelessly
addressed, it twisted my meaning
entirely, it left an ache,
I didn’t know what I was doing.

So I took down my yellowed copy
of French With Pictures
by the late literary critic I.A. Richards
and I put my petition
into soft French words.

I.A. Richards believed that irony
was the language of redemption.
He wrote and lectured famously on this,
but his masterpiece was French With Pictures.
“The chapeau is on the table.”

The constellations—see? A throne?
A crab? A goat? A hare?—
are not so clear when you’re alone.
It seems there’s nothing there

But stars and stars with no designs.
It takes an expert guide
to draw the non-existent lines
around what’s not inside.

prays for birds
before an ancient icon—
a stray cat.

The inbred need
to pray
is what makes God
necessary,

and not, she says,
the other way
around;
beyond that

it’s all mystery,
so don’t question
why Man creates gods
that demand

sacrifice,
condemning mortals
to spend their lives
trying to praise

godhead into mercy.
Better instead