At break of dawn
he takes a street-car, happy
after a night of love.

Happy,
but sleepily wondering
how many away is the night

when an ecto-endomorph
cock-sucker must put on
The Widow's Cap.

Yonder behold a little purling rill,
Sweet flowing down the green, enamelled hill:
This aqueduct proceeds from Morrit's drains,
And well compensates his ingenious pains.
The rotten ground, which trembled as we trod,
Is now released from the exuberant load
Of chilly waters, that the grass deprive
Of its nutritious particles, and drive,
With moist, diluting qualities, away
The salts impregnating the foodful hay.
Where the dejected sheep all bleating stood,
Benumbed with chilly damps, and starved for food,

A female mind like a rude fallow lies;
No seed is sown, but weeds spontaneous rise.
As well might we expect, in winter, spring,
As land untilled a fruitful crop should bring;
As well might we expect Peruvian ore
We should possess, yet dig not for the store:
Culture improves all fruits, all sorts we find,
Wit, judgement, sense—fruits of the human mind.
Ask the rich merchant, conversant in trade,
How nature operates in the growing blade;
Ask the philosopher the price of stocks,
Ask the gay courtier how to manage flocks;

Our gloves are stiff with the frozen blood,
Our furs with the drifted snow,
As we come in with the seal—the seal!
In from the edge of the floe.

Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
And the yelping dog-teams go;
And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
Back from the edge of the floe!

We tracked our seal to his secret place,
We heard him scratch below,
We made our mark, and we watched beside,
Out on the edge of the floe.

We raised our lance when he rose to breathe,
We drove it downward—so!

The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow—
They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go.
The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to the white.
The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's crew;
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few.
But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken—
Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men!
Quiquern .

Once a ripple came to land
In the golden sunset burning—
Lapped against a maiden's hand,
By the ford returning.

Dainty foot and gentle breast—
Here, across, be glad and rest.
“Maiden, wait,” the ripple saith;
“Wait awhile, for I am Death!”

“Where my lover calls I go—
Shame it were to treat him coldly—
'Twas a fish that circled so,
Turning over boldly.”

Dainty foot and tender heart,
Wait the loaded ferry-cart.
“Wait, ah, wait!” the ripple saith;
“Maiden, wait, for I am Death!”

Now does Spain's fleet her spacious wings unfold,
Leaves the New World and hastens for the old:
But though the wind was fair, they slowly swum
Freighted with acted guilt, and guilt to come:
For this rich load, of which so proud they are,
Was raised by tyranny, and raised for war;
Every capacious gallion's womb was filled,
With what the womb of wealthy kingdoms yield,
The New World's wounded entrails they had tore,
For wealth wherewith to wound the Old once more:
Wealth which all others' avarice might cloy,

O Spirit blest!
Whether th' eternal Throne around,
Amidst the blaze of Cherubim,
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,
Or, soaring through the blest Domain,
Enraptur'st Angels with thy strain,--
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
Like thee, with fire divine to glow--
But ah! when rage the Waves of Woe,
Grant me with firmer breast t'oppose their hate,
And soar beyond the storms with upright eye elate!

Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.

From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers that round them blow
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich stream of Music winds along
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;
Now rolling down the steep amain
Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:
The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

O Sovereign of the willing soul,

WIT was a strange unlucky child,
Exceeding sly, and very wild;
Too volatile for truth or law,
He minded but his top or taw;
And, ere he reached the age of six,
Had played a thousand waggish tricks—
He drilled a hole in Vulcan's kettles,
He strewed Minerva's bed with nettles,
Climbed up the solar car to ride in't,
Broke off a prong from Neptune's trident,
Stole Amphitrite's favourite sea-knot,
And urined in Astrea's teapot.