English

Judge not; the workings of his brain
And of his heart thou canst not see;
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain,
In God's pure light may only be
A scar, brought from some well-won field,
Where thou wouldst only faint and yield.

The look, the air, that frets thy sight
May be a token that below
The soul has closed in deadly fight
With some infernal fiery foe,
Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace,
And cast thee shuddering on thy face!

The fall thou darest to despise,—
May be the angel's slackened hand

When Alysandyr our King was dede
That Scotland led in luve and le,
Away was sons of ale and brede,
Of wine and wax, of gamyn and gle;
Our gold was changyd into lede.
Christ born into Virginitie
Succour Scotland and remede
That stad is in perplexytie.

A Pie sat on a pear tree,
A Pie sat on a pear tree,
A Pie sat on a pear tree,
Heigho, heigho, heigho!

Then once so merrily hop't she,
Then once so merrily hop't she,
Then once so merrily hop't she,
Heigho, heigho, heigho!

Peter White will ne'er go right;
Would you know the reason why?
He follows his nose wherever he goes,
And that stands all awry.

Peter of the brothers three
Loved a life of poesy;
While they stolid bargains drove
He saw movies in the stove.

Peter was a man of peace,
Happily he tended geese;
Though his brothers, as they rose,
Ran a motor 'neath his nose.

Peter knew his limitations,—
Never needed intimations
Which tunes he was not to sing,
What new cabbage pleased the king.

Peter saw expedience
Was the way of common sense;
Sitting quiet on the down
Grabbed the princess and the crown.

The paralytic man has dropped in death
The crossing-sweeper's brush to which he clung,
One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath,
Although his hair was young.

I saw this year the winter vines of France,
Dwarfed, twisted goblins in the frosty drouth—
Gnarled, crippled, blackened little stems askance
On long hills to the South.

Great green and golden hands of leaves ere long
Shall proffer clusters in that vineyard wide.
And O his might, his sweet, his wine, his song,
His stature, since he died!

Out of the night to my leafy porch they came,
A thousand moths. Did He who made the toad
Give them their wings upon the starry road?
Restless and wild, they circle round the flame,
Frail wonder-shapes that man can never tame—
Whirl like the blown flakes of December snows,
Tinted with amber, violet and rose,
Marked with hieroglyphs that have no name.
Out of the summer darkness pours the flight:
Unknown the wild processional they keep.
What lures them to this rush of mad delight?
Why are they called from nothingness and sleep?

Open your gates for him
Eager and new!
All the world waits for him;
What will he do?

Dear incompletenesses
Blossoming hours!
Feed him with sweetnesses!
Heap him with flowers!

See how he crumbles them,
Shouts like a man!
Tosses and tumbles them
Wide as he can!

Vain is admonishment,
Sermons in vain:—
Gleeful astonishment!
At it again!

Wildness of babyhood!
Passion of play!
Who but a baby would
Wish it away?

Rapt from the Mystery,
Reft from the whole,

Dear fold me once more in thine Armes;
And let me know,
Before I goe,
There is no blisse but in those charmes:
By thy faire selfe I sweare,
That here and only here
I would for ever ever stay
But cruel Fate calls me away.

How swiftly the light minutes slide;
The hours that hast
Away thus fast
By envyous flight my stay do chide:
Yet Dear, since I must go,
By this last kiss I vow
By all that sweetness which dwels with thee,
Time shall move slow, till next I see thee.

One sweetly solemn thought
—Comes to me o'er and o'er;
I am nearer home to-day
—Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,
—Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
—Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life,
—Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross!
—Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between,
—Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
—That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps