If neither brass nor marble can withstand
The mortal force of Time's destructive hand;
If mountains sink to vales, if cities die,
And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry,
"When my old cassock,' says a Welsh divine,
"Is out at elbows, why should I repine?'

I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea!
We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee;
And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky,
Has awaked in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die.

A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew dabbled, the lily and rose;
Ah, dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes,
Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew:
For I would we were changed to white birds on the wandering foam: I and you!

I woke up this mornin' 'bout four o'clock.
Mr. Kassie tol' the fireman get his boiler hot.
Put on your water, put on your coal,
Put your head out de window, see my drivers roll,
See my drivers roll.
Put your head out de window, see my drivers roll.

Lord, some people said Mr. Kassie couldn't run;
Let me tell you what Mr. Kassie done:
He left Memphis was a quarter to nine,
Got into Newport News it was dinnah time,
It was dinnah time.
Got into Newport News it was dinnah time.

Lord, people said to Kassie, “You runnin' over time.

I well remember how some threescore years
And ten ago, a helpless babe, I toddled
From chair to chair about my mother's chamber,
Feeling, as 'twere, my way in the new world
And foolishly afraid of, or, as 't might be,
Foolishly pleased with, th' unknown objects round me.
And now with stiffened joints I sit all day
In one of those same chairs, as foolishly
Hoping or fearing something from me hid
Behind the thick, dark veil which I see hourly
And minutely on every side round closing
And from my view all objects shutting out.

I washed my face in water
That neither rained nor run.
I dried my face on a towel
That was neither wove nor spun.

I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
'Twas in the reign,
Of Cáhal M r of the Wine-red Hand.

Anon stood nigh
By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime.
Him queried I—
“O, my Lord and Khan,
What clime is this, and what golden time?”
When he—“The clime
Is a clime to praise,

Ishall steal upon her
Where she sits so white,
Creep-mouse, creep-mouse,
In the twilight.

She sits in the shadows,
Dreamy, dreamy—
I shall go stealthily
So she cannot see me.

I shall steal behind her
And kiss her on the cheek
And cover up her wee mouth
So she cannot speak.

I would fain surprise her
If so be I might,
Creep-mouse, creep-mouse,
In the twilight!

I ride through a dark, dark Land by night,
Where moon is none and no stars lend light,
And rueful winds are blowing,
Yet oft have I trodden this way ere now,
With summer zephyrs a-fanning my brow,
And the gold of the sunshine glowing.

I roam by a gloomy Garden-wall;
The deathstricken leaves around me fall;
And the night-blast wails its dolors;
How oft with my love I have hitherward strayed
When the roses flowered, and all I surveyed
Was radiant with Hope's own colors!

But the gold of the sunshine is shed and gone,

Hence my epistle—skim the deep—fly o'er
Yon smooth expanse to the Teutonic shore!
Haste—lest a friend should grieve for thy delay—
And the Gods grant, that nothing thwart thy way!
I will myself invoke the king, who binds,
In his Sicanian echoing vault, the winds,
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along.
But rather, to insure thy happier haste,
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou may'st;
Or that, whence young Triptolemus of yore
Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore.

I know I have a lot of faults
I never even see,
But my neighbor knows about them,
For he is watching me!

I try to walk exemplary,
Obeying God's commands,
But never see the little sins
My neighbor understands!

I readily can see his faults,
They stand out sharp and strong,
And am amazed he cannot see
What is so clearly wrong.

And then I am convicted
As the Spirit whispers low,
“If you would truly judge yourself,
No judgment you would know.”

I humbly ask God's pardon,
And beg Him search within