What nymph should I admire, or trust,
But Cloe beauteous, Cloe just?
What nymph should I desire to see,
But her who leaves the plain for me?
To whom should I compose the lay,
But her who listens, when I play?
To whom, in song, repeat my cares,
But her who in my sorrow shares?
For whom should I the garland make,
But her who joys the gift to take,
And boasts she wears it for my sake?
In love am I not fully blest?
Lisetta, pr'thee tell the rest.

Life has two sovereign moments;
One when we settle down
To some life-worthy purpose,—
One when we grasp the crown.

He carved a flute of elder green,
And notched it well and true,
Then pursed his lips and puffed his cheeks
And merrily he blew.

For it was spring-time holiday,
A sun-tanned boy was he,
With russet freckles on his face
And a patch upon his knee.

The apple boughs above him flung
Their tangled sprays on high,
With one dark, bristly blue-jay nest
Rough-sketched against the sky.

He knew the secrets of the grass,
The burden of the hour,
He saw the fierce, bluff bumblebee
Touse many a clover flower.

Deep in the Siberian mine,
Keep your patience proud;
The bitter toil shall not be lost,
The rebel thought unbowed.

The sister of misfortune, Hope,
In the under-darkness dumb
Speaks joyful courage to your heart:
The day desired will come.

And love and friendship pour to you
Across the darkened doors,
Even as round your galley-beds
My free music pours.

The heavy-hanging chains will fall,
The walls will crumble at a word;
And Freedom greet you in the light,
And brothers give you back the sword.

Exhibit A; the edge of this long knife:
Earth broken into hard, exquisite mood:
A blameless subtlety compelled to brood
Unwittingly against the flesh of life.

Exhibit B; the face of this dead girl
Repenting in a lonely glen for weeks,
With feelings still confessing on the cheeks
Turned into rotten dreams of green and pearl.

Her eyes reveal the bulging rendezvous
Where thieves and cherubs, caught by emptiness,
Gave up their fight and merged into a guess
Concerning shadows just beyond their view.

Her lips, once gossiping and vixenish,

Not all the creeds in all the world
Shall comfort me when I am old,
For I have learned them word for word
And found them bitter cold;

Yet I believe that following
Across the night a star's faint gleam,
I'll find a manger in the dawn
Where I may lay my dream.

There are so many places
That I should like to see,
But I must walk the narrow road
The fates unwind for me,

With flowers by the roadside
And birds in every tree,
Yet in my heart the dream of lands
That I shall never see.

Come, Sadhus, sing Hari's praises; come, let us sing Hari's praise.
Sanctify the mind with meditation, the ear with the heavenly waters of love.
Sanctify the tongue with singing praises. Let us sing praises and be joyful.
To sing Hari's praise is a stream of nectar: to praise His love's immortal wine is sweet.
By tasting it we find salvation, by drinking thereof become immortal.
Brother of the poor, the poor's defender, Lord of the helpless, destroyer of their pains.
His Form is truth, is life, is bliss, at His feet lay down your cares.

Buzzing gnats, relentless beasts,
Wingèd creatures of the night,
Draw men's blood to make your feasts,
But give her a brief respite.
You may eat my flesh away,
If you spare Zenophila.

Yet what use with prayers to sue
Things that every man annoy?
Even monsters fierce as you
Find those soft warm limbs a joy.
Cease your pranks—I warn you. Fly,
Or learn the strength of jealousy.

So sweet, all sweet—the body as the shyer
Sweet senses, and the Spirit sweet as those:
For me the fragrance of a whole sweet-briar
Beside the rose!