English

Whoever weeps somewhere out in the world
Weeps without cause in the world
Weeps over me.

Whoever laughs somewhere out in the night
Laughs without cause in the night
Laughs at me.

Whoever wanders somewhere in the world
Wanders in vain in the world
Wanders to me.

Whoever dies somewhere in the world
Dies without cause in the world

Who reach their threescore years and ten,
—As I have mine, without a sigh,
Are either more or less than men—
———Not such am I.

I am not of them; life to me
—Has been a strange, bewildering dream,
Wherein I knew not things that be
———From things that seem.

I thought, I hoped, I knew one thing,
—And had one gift, when I was young—
The impulse and the power to sing,
———And so I sung.

To have a place in the high choir
—Of poets, and deserve the same—
What more could mortal man desire

Who kill'd John Keats?
‘I,’ says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
‘'Twas one of my feats.’

Who shot the arrow?
‘The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey, or Barrow.’

Who builds of stone a shrine to bear his name,
Shall be forgot when months and years have flown;
Who writes his name upon the scroll of fame,
The centuries shall find to men unknown;
But who for fellow men endured the shame
Shall have eternal glory for his own.

Who builds of stone a shrine to bear his name,
—Shall be forgot when months and years have flown;
Who writes his name upon the scroll of fame,
—The centuries shall find to men unknown;
But who for fellow men endured the shame
—Shall have eternal glory for his own.

While yet the grapes were green, thou didst refuse me,
When they were ripe, didst proudly pass me by;
But do not grudge me still a single cluster,
Now that the grapes are withering and dry.

When you go out at early morn,
Your busy hands, sweet drudge, are bare;
For you must work, and none are there
To see with scorn—to feel with scorn.

And when the weekly wars begin,
Your arms are naked to the hilt,
And many a sturdy pail's a-tilt
To sheathe them in—to plunge them in.

For you at least can understand
That daily work is hard and stern,
That those who toil for bread must learn
To bare the hand—to spoil the hand.

But in the evening, when they dine,
And you behind each frequent chair

When Delia on the plain appears,
Awed by a thousand tender fears
I would approach, but dare not move:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

Whene'er she speaks, my ravished ear
No other voice than hers can hear,
No other wit but hers approve:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove:
Tell me, my heart, if this be love?

When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleased before—

The whelp that nipped its mother's dug in turning from her breast,
And smacked its lusty lips and built its own lair in the West,
Has stretched its limbs and looked about and roared across the sea:
“Oh, mother, I did bite thee hard, but still thou lovest me!”

She lifts her head and listens, as waking from a dream,
Her great jaw set, her claws outspread, her lion eyes agleam;
The voice is deep as thunder on the far horizon rim,
And up the mother spoke and said: “It can be none but him!”

Cried England to America: “My ancient love abides,

Here I sit with my belly full
And he who might have been my brother
Walks hungry in the rain.

Here I sit with my belly full
And she I might have loved
Seeks someone in the shadows
To whom she may sell her body.

Here I sit with my belly full,
No longer in the rain,
No longer the shadows for the
Woman I love,
No longer hunger.

Success is a great big beefsteak
With onions on it,

“What tidings bringest thou, messenger,
Of Christës birth this jolly day?”

A Babe is born of high nature,
The Prince of peace that ever shall be;
Of heaven and earth He hath the cure,
His lordship is eternity.
Such wondrous tidings you may hear,
That man is made now Godës peer,
Whom sin had made but fiendës prey.

A wondrous thing doth now befall,
That King that formëd star and sun,
Heaven and earth and angels all,
Now in mankind is new begun.
Such wondrous tidings you may hear,