Here, here I live,
And somewhat give,
Of what I have,
To those, who crave.
Little or much,
My Almnes is such:
But if my deal
Of Oyl and Meal
Shall fuller grow,
More Ile bestow:
Mean time be it
E'en but a bit,
Or else a crum,
The scrip hath some.

Princes and Fav'rites are most deere, while they
By giving and receiving hold the play:
But the Relation then of both growes poor,
When These can aske, and Kings can give no more.

Aske me, why I do not sing
To the tension of the string,
As I did, not long ago,
When my numbers full did flow?
Griefe (ay me!) hath struck my Lute,
And my tongue at one time mute.

As my little Pot doth boyle,
We will keep this Levell-Coyle;
That a Wave, and I will bring
To my God, a Heave-offering.

As oft as Night is banish'd by the Morne,
So oft, we'll think, we see a King new born.

O childish mind!—last night to rapture won
In marvel of wild Orion; now to sink
Earthward; and by the flames of a dwarf sun
Find a like happiness in a single pink!

I was at peace until you came
And set a careless mind aflame.
I lived in quiet; cold, content;
All longing in safe banishment,
Until your ghostly lips and eyes
Made wisdom unwise.

Naught was in me to tempt your feet
To seek a lodging. Quite forgot
Lay the sweet solitude we two
In childhood used to wander through;
Time's cold had closed my heart about;
And shut you out.

Well, and what then? … O vision grave,
Take all the little all I have!
Strip me of what in voiceless thought
Life's kept of life, unhoped, unsought!—

I know where lurk
The eyes of Fear;
I, I alone,
Where shadowy-clear,
Watching for me,
Lurks Fear.

'Tis ever still
And dark, despite
All singing and
All candlelight,
'Tis ever cold,
And night.

He touches me;
Says quietly,
“Stir not, nor whisper,
I am nigh;
Walk noiseless on,
I am by!”

He drives me
As a dog a sheep;
Like a cold stone
I cannot weep.
He lifts me
Hot from sleep

In marble hands
To where on high
The jewelled horror
Of his eye
Dares me to struggle
Or cry.

No breast wherein

To spend unsolaced years of pain
Again again and yet again
In turning o'er in heart and brain
The riddle of our being here;
To gather facts from far and near,
Upon the mind to keep them clear,
And thinking more may yet appear,
Unto one's latest breath to fear
The premature result to draw—
Is this the purpose and high law
And object of our being here?

To doubt not if it's good or not
But cheerfully accept our lot
And get whatever may be got
And gained out of our being here;
To get our pleasures while we may
We must set us to obey

All night I dream you love me well,
All day I dream that you are cold:
Which is the dream? ah, who can tell,
Ah would that it were told.

So I should know my certain doom,
Know all the gladness or the pain;
So pass into the dreamless tomb,
Or never doubt again.