English

It is at morning, twilight they expire;
Death takes in hand, when midnight sounds,
Millions of bodies in their beds,
And scarcely anybody thinks of it. …

O men and women, you
About to die at break of day,
I see your hands' uneasy multitude,
Which now the blood deserts for ever!

White people in the throes of death,
Wrestling in all the world to-night,
And whom the weeping dawn will silence,
Fearful I hear your gasping breath!

How many of you there are dying!
How can so many other folks be lying

It fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was then,
When our good wife got puddings to make,
And she's boild them in the pan.

The wind sae cauld blew south and north,
And blew into the floor;
Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,
"Gae out and bar the door."

"My hand is in my hussyfskap,
Goodman, as ye may see;
An it should nae be barrd this hundred year,
It's no be barrd for me."

They made a paction tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,
That the first word whaeer shoud speak,

The dust, unlifted, lies as first it lay
When on his dewy path came up the day;

The spider-web stirs not; on seas of air,
The thistle-ship, becalmed, rocks idly there;

The fern-leaves curl, the wild rose sweetness spends
Rich as at eve the honeysuckle lends;

The creeping cattle feed far up the hill,
The blithest birds have hid, the wood is still;

On daisied dials, pointing flower to flower,
The shadow-hands have reached the golden hour.

Is it an idle fantasy,
That in the twilight's violet gloom,
When waves are singing out at sea,
And shadows fill the room,—

The mist assumes before my gaze,
A human form of exquisite grace,
And by the melancholy haze,
Is veiled a peerless face?—

A maiden loved when life was new,
Her soul was trust, her eyes a prayer;
She faded quite. Can it be true
I see her in the air?

Her eyes are crystals, dropping tears,
Her hair reflects the silver moon;
Will ecstasy or sudden fears

Into the town of Conemaugh,
Striking the people's souls with awe,
Dashed a rider, aflame and pale,
Never alighting to tell his tale,
Sitting his big bay horse astride.
“Run for your lives to the hills!” he cried;
“Run to the hills!” was what he said,
As he waved his hand and dashed ahead.

“Run for your lives to the hills!” he cried,
Spurring his horse, whose reeking side
Was flecked with foam as red as flame.
Whither he goes and whence he came
Nobody knows. They see his horse
Plunging on in his frantic course,

In this cold monument lies one,
That I knew who has lain upon,
The happier He: her sight would charm,
And touch have kept King David warm.
Lovely, as is the dawning East,
Was this marble's frozen guest;
As soft, and snowy, as that down
Adorns the blow-ball's frizzled crown;
As straight and slender as the crest,
Or antlet of the one-beam'd beast;
Pleasant as th' odorous month of May:
As glorious, and as light as day.

Whom I admir'd, as soon as knew,
And now her memory pursue
With such a superstitious lust,

There was a man of double deed
Who sowed his garden full of seed.
When the seed began to grow,
It was like a garden full of snow.
When the snow began to melt,
It was like a ship without a bell.
When the ship began to sail,
It was like a bird without a tail.
When the bird began to fly,
It was like an eagle in the sky.
When the sky began to roar,
It was like a lion at the door.
When the door began to crack,
It was like a stick across my back.
When my back began to smart,
It was like a penknife in my heart.

There is an olden story,
'Tis a legend, so I'm told,
How the flowerets gave a banquet,
In the ivied days of old;
How the posies gave a party once
That wound up with a ball,
How they held it in a valley,
Down in “Flowery Kingdom Hall.”

The flowers of every clime were there,
Of high and low degree,
All with their petals polished,
In sweet aromatic glee.
They met down in this woodland
In the soft and ambient air,
Each in its lolling loveliness,
Exhaled a perfume rare.

Ther is no rose of swich vertù
As is the rose that bare Jesù:
Alleluya!

For in this rose conteined was
Heven and erth in litel space,
Res miranda.

By that rose we may wel see
That He is God in persones three,
Pari forma.

The aungeles sungen the sheperdes to:
‘Gloria in excelsis Deo’.
Gaudeamus!

Leve we al this worldly mirth,
And folwe we this joyful birth:

Thank God we do not live by bread alone
But by all loveliness that we have known,
By each fair color and by each soft tone.

Far to the west the golden wheat fields spread,
And from this beauty soul and sense are fed;
For so God gives us twice our daily bread.