Between the Winter and the Spring
between day and night
a no man's time a mean light
with cold mist creeping along the alleys
and the sun like a world withdrawn.

The shrill voices of surplus children
shake up the frosty dust
lamps are lit
and bleak shadows like bruises
rise under their golden eyes.

Through these cavernous streets
between a winter and a spring
between night and day
we wander our hearts lifted
above the shadows and the dust
secure in an alien light.

To this admir'd discouerer giue place,
Yee who first tam'd the sea, the windes outranne,
And match'd the daye's bright coach-man in your race,
Americus, Columbus, Magellan.
This is most true that your ingenious care
And well-spent paines another world brought forth,
For beasts, birds, trees, for gemmes and metals rare,
Yet all being earth, was but of earthly worth.
Hee a more precious world to vs descryes,
Rich in more treasure than both Indes containe,
Faire in more beauty than man's witte can faine,
Whose sunne not sets, whose people neuer dies.

What Samson embrac'd, when revenge for his eyes,
Provok'd the huge Warrior to tumbledown legions,
What oft, thro' the night, from some ruin'd church cries,
Harsh-voic'd as a native of Pluto's pale regions;

The Female whose folly all mankind impeach,
That e'er she was form'd to embitter enjoyment,
The little emphatical main-spring of Speech,
Whose pleasure is toil, and whose ease is employment;

Pick out the initials of each of their names,
Add his who destroy'd, and then bow'd down to Witches;
Which done, a known title your notice then claims,

Let it content thee that I call thee dear—
Thou'rt wise and great, and others name thee so.
From me, what gentler tribute wouldst thou know
Than the slight hand, upon thy shoulder laid,
And the full heart, high throbbing, not afraid.

No, not afraid—of manly stature thou,
Of power compact, and temper fervor-tried,—
Yet I, a weakling, in thine armour hide,
Or, sick beyond the medicine of Art,
Hang on the healthful pulses of thine heart.

In waking dreams I see thine outstretched arms
That conquer night and distance for my sake,

Fain would I call that night which spreads so fast
Out of the vault of death's abysmal skies,
A gentle gloom like that of thy dark eyes:
Fain would I say that we, like children, cast
Our blindfold faces with a timid haste
Into a mother's lap—ere long to rise
Some little forfeit and some sweet surprise,
The playful future of a playful past.
But ah! it is not so. Reality
Makes a dread language of this ebbing breath;
Preaching those awful homilies of death
Which sound so like each other at their close.
The least of sins is infinite: it throws

Mr. Henry Ford
Had a little secret hoard,
To which he would add a dime
From time to time.

Nosegays I cry, and, though little you pay,
They're such as you cannot get every day.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry.
Who'll buy? who'll buy?—'tis nosegays I cry.

Each mincing, ambling, lisping blade,
Who smiles, and talks of blisses
He never felt, is here portray'd
In form of a narcissus.
Nosegays I cry, &c.

Statesmen, like Indians, who adore
The sun, by courting power,
Cannot be shewn their likeness more
Than in th' humble sun-flower.
Nosegays I cry, &c.

Poets I've here in sprigs of bays,

O Christ, which art the head of every thing,
From whom a better life then this doth spring;
Thy Father's measure yet unmeasurèd,
Whom (whiles that He Himself contemplated
In His high mind) He streams forth light of light,
And sees Himself in's equal image bright;
Like whom the world, and the world's guardian, man,
Was made: but O, he suddainly began
To be rebellious, his high honour lost,
And prest with crimes (which him most dearly cost)
Becoming guilty of the greatest pain,
In this state lay, and had for ever laine,

Adieu to kindred hearts and home,
To pleasure, joy, and mirth!
A fitter foot than mine to roam
Could scarcely tread the earth;
For they are now so few indeed
(Not more than three in all)
Who e'er will think of me, or heed
What fate may me befall.

For I through pleasure's paths have run
My headlong goal to win,
Nor pleasure's snares have cared to shun
When pleasure sweetened sin.
Let those who will their failings mask,
To mine I frankly own;
But for them pardon will I ask
Of none—save Heaven alone.