I sailed a little shallop
Upon a pretty sea
In blue and hazy mountains,
Scarce mountains unto me;
Their summits lost in wonder,
They wrapped the lake around,
And when my shallop landed
I trod on a vague ground,

And climbed and climbed toward heaven,
Though scarce before my feet
I found one step unveiled there
The blue-haze vast, complete,
Until I came to Zion
The gravel paths of God,
My endless trail pierced the thick veil
To flaming flowers and sod.
I rested, looked behind me
And saw where I had been.

Men marvel at the works of man
And with unstinted praises sing
The greatness of some worldly thing
Encompassed during one life's span;
An empire built, kingdom born.
And straightway men sound man's own horn.

The human brain's a wondrous work,
So chant the sages and the deans—
Those thought and labour go-betweens,
Who ever life's deep mysteries shirk.
A steel ribbed ship, an engine new—
Ah, mighty things strong man doth do!

Man rears great piles of chiselled stone,
And builds across the roaring streams,

The birth-place of Mr. William Shakespeare author
Of Timon and other poetry including
“Who sees his true love on her naked bed
Teaching the sheets” including also sonnets
“To one of one still such and ever so”
Or Lincoln's in Kentucky where they say,
From This to That: Think of it! (If they could!)
Or Dante Alighieri's—Godi Fiorenza—
Has not been found. They cannot fix their marbles
Just where the year twelve hundred sixty five
Rolled up the Arno or where time and Troy
And Stratford crossed each other. On this spot—

The unexpected interest made him flush.
Suddenly he seemed to forget the pain,—
Consented,—and held out
one finger from the others.

The gash was bleeding, and a shaft of sun
That glittered in and out among the wheels,
Fell lightly, warmly, down into the wound.

And as the fingers of the factory owner's son,
That knew a grip for books and tennis
As well as one for iron and leather,—
As his taut, spare fingers wound the gauze
Around the thick bed of the wound,
His own hands seemed to him
Like wings of butterflies

The King's Daughter is all glorious within,
Her clothing of wrought gold sets forth her bliss;
Where the endless choruses of heaven begin
The King's Daughter is;

Perfect her notes in the perfect harmonies;
With tears wiped away, no conscience of sin,
Loss forgotten and sorrowful memories;

Alight with Cherubin, afire with Seraphin,
Lily for pureness, rose for charities,
With joy won and with joy evermore to win,
The King's Daughter is.

Aforefinger of stone, dreamed by a sculptor, points to the sky.
It says: This way! this way!

Four lions snore in stone at the corner of the shaft.
They too are the dream of a sculptor.
They too say: This way! this way!

The street cars swing at a curve.
The middle-class passengers witness low life.
The car windows frame low life all day in pictures.

Two Italian cellar delicatessens
sell red and green peppers.
The Florida bananas furnish a burst of yellow.
The lettuce and the cabbage give a green.

Boys play marbles in the cinders.

I lift mine eyes to see: earth vanisheth.
I lift up wistful eyes and bend my knee:
Trembling, bowed down, and face to face with Death,
I lift mine eyes to see.

Lo, what I see is Death that shadows me:
Yet whilst I, seeing, draw a shuddering breath,
Death like a mist grows rare perceptibly.

Beyond the darkness light, beyond the scathe
Healing, beyond the Cross a palm-branch tree,
Beyond Death Life, on evidence of faith:
I lift mine eyes to see.

Lord, to Thine own grant watchful hearts and eyes;
Hearts strung to prayer, awake while eyelids sleep;
Eyes patient till the end to watch and weep.
So will sleep nourish power to wake and rise
With Virgins who keep vigil and are wise,
To sow among all sowers who shall reap,
From out man's deep to call Thy vaster deep,
And tread the uphill track to Paradise.
Sweet souls! so patient that they make no moan,
So calm on journey that they seem at rest,
So rapt in prayer that half they dwell in heaven
Thankful for all withheld and all things given;

Long and dark the nights, dim and short the days,
Mounting weary heights on our weary ways,
Thee our God we praise.
Scaling heavenly heights by unearthly ways,
Thee our God we praise all our nights and days,
Thee our God we praise.

Buy, buy, buy,
Is the Peace-markt cry:
And the nations are our brothers
If they buy, buy, buy.

Honour's but a windy bag,
And History's a lie;
Nobility's at purchase,
And we'll buy, buy, buy.

The Synagogue's in Parliament;
The Jews are in the sty;
Salaam unto the guinea,
And we'll buy, buy, buy.

Young May is in December's bed;
Jack Horner eats his pie;
The Beauty goes to auction,
And we'll buy, buy, buy.

Religion sleeps on its old rags,
The world is all awry,
The Czar shall gulp the Sultan,