Since first the White Horse Banner blew free,
By Hengist's horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale —
" Woe to the weaker — woe! "

No charm can bridle the hard-mouthed wind
Or smooth the fretting swell.
No gift can alter the grey Sea's mind,
But she serves the strong man well.
(As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred

How do we know, by the bank-high river,
Where the mired and sulky oxen wait,
And it looks as though we might wait for ever,
How do we know that the floods abate?
There is no change in the current's brawling —
Louder and harsher the freshet scolds;
Yet we can feel she is falling, falling,
And the more she threatens the less she holds.
Down to the drift, with no word spoken,
The wheel-chained wagons slither and slue. . . .

Sooner or late — in earnest or in jest —
(But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel's Hour
Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
Of our sole unbacked competence and power
Up to the limit of our years and dower
Of judgment — or beyond. But here we have
Prepared long since our garland or our grave.

For, at that hour, the sum of all our past,
Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
In one addition, be it more or less,
And as that reading runs so shall we do;
Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,

With us there rade a Maister-Cook that came
From the Rochelle which is neere Angoulême.
Littel hee was, but rounder than a topp,
And his small berd hadde dipped in manie a soppe.
His honde was smoother than beseemeth mann's,
And his discoorse was all of marzipans,
Of tripes of Caen, or Burdeux snailes swote,
And Seinte Menhoulde wher cooken pigges-foote.
To Thoulouse and to Bress and Carcasson
For pyes and fowles and chesnottes hadde hee wonne;
Of hammes of Thuringie colde hee prate,
And well hee knew what Princes hadde on plate

Once a pair of savages found a stranded tree.
(One-piecee stick-pidgin — two-piecee man.
Straddle-um — paddle-um — push-um off to sea.
That way Foleign Debbil-boat began.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any shape of sailing-craft was known,
The Junk and Dhow had a stern and a bow,
And a mast and a sail of their own — ahoy! alone!
As they crashed across the Oceans on their own!

TO ALL to whom this little book may come —
Health for yourselves and those you hold most dear!
Content abroad, and happiness at home,
And — one grand Secret in your private ear: —
Nations have passed away and left no traces,
And History gives the naked cause of it —
One single, simple reason in all cases;
They fell because their peoples were not fit.

Now, though your Body be mis-shapen, blind,
Lame, feverish, lacking substance, power or skill,
Certain it is that men can school the Mind
To school the sickliest Body to her will —

1. How doth the city sit solitary, that was full of people! how is she become as a widow! she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary!
2. She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: among all
her lovers she hath none to comfort her: all her friends have dealt
treacherously with her, they are become her enemies.
3. Judah is gone into capitivity because of affliction, and because of great

1. How is the gold become dim! how is the most fine gold changed! the stones of the sanctuary are poured out in the tops of every street.
2. The precious sons of Zion, comparable to fine gold, how are they esteemed as earthen pitchers, the work of the hands of the potter!
3. Even the sea monsters draw out the breast, they give suck to their young ones: the daughter of my people is become cruel, like the ostriches in the wilderness.
4. The tongue of the sucking child cleaveth to the roof of his mouth for thirst: the young children ask bread, and no man breaketh it unto them.

As old age approaches
my faculties grow numb;
I do things alone,
people think I'm strange!
The frightened fish
is saddened by the net,
the tired bird
cannot find a roost.
My wife and children
are tired of my poems,
my clothing lets through
the chill of ice and snow.
Selling my writings,
still a traveler through life,
have I betrayed my pledge
to become a hermit
at Deer Gate Mountain?

Canto I

XIX

Some men, 'tis said, prefer a woman fat.
Lord Byron did. Some like her very spare.
Some like a lameness. (I have known one that
Would go quite far enough for your despair,
And halt in time.) Some like them delicate
As lilies, and with some " the only wear "
Is one whose sex has spoil'd a midshipman.
Some only like what pleased another man.

XX

I like one that likes me . But there's a kind