Songs of praise the angels sang,
Heav’n with alleluias rang,
When creation was begun,
When God spoke and it was done.

Songs of praise awoke the morn
When the Prince of Peace was born;
Songs of praise arose when He
Captive led Captivity.

Heav’n and earth must pass away!
Songs of praise shall crown that day!
God will make new heav’ns and earth;
Songs of praise shall hail their birth.

And can man alone be dumb,
Till that glorious kingdom come?
No: the church delights to raise
Psalms, and hymns, and songs of praise.

Oh! go to sleep, my baby dear,
And I will hold thee on my knee;
Thy mother's in her winding sheet,
And thou art all that's left to me.
My hairs are white with grief and age,
I've borne the weight of every ill,
And I would lay me with my child,
But thou art left to love me still.

Should thy false father see thy face,
The tears would fill his cruel e'e,
But he has scorned thy mother's woe,
And he shall never look on thee:
But I will rear thee up alone,
And with me thou shalt aye remain;

Our almighty Lord, eternal, unfathomed,
To Thee Cherubin proclaim "Holy, holy, holy!"
To Thee too, Seraph, true love's pure brand;
A fiery firmament tho marks Thy glory's stead.

And tho Thou art in all, 'tis there my teary eyes
I lift, and there doth my longing heart sigh;
For my senses' strengths match not their afflictions,
Like servants of masters, Thy mercies they crave.

And my will, to Thy will no whining slave,
Like a lowly maid of a lady, awaits Thee
To fast lend her a hand, and in Thy just

To Thee, eternal Defender of all creation,
I call, frail, commiserate, nowhere secure.
Keep me in close watch, and in my each anxiety,
Hasten to bring aid to my wretched soul.

With Thy rod, do but quell the blind flesh
So laden with vain, lowly, ill-working lust;
For shame it seeks sway o'er its own soul:
Fairer if what's to decay serves what's forever!

And ye, cov'tous hosts (Lord God, my Defence),
Show your heels and take your infamy unending,
Ye who deny God's creation the wealth (whence you

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.

I am no one and never will be anyone,
for I am far too small to claim to be;
not even later.

Mothers and Fathers,
take pity on me.

I fear it will not pay to raise me:
I shall fall victim to the mower's scythe.
No one can find me useful now: I am too young,
and tomorrow will be too late.

I only have one dress,
worn thin and faded,
but it will last an eternity
even before God, perhaps.

I only have this whispy hair
(that always remained the same)
yet once was someone's dearest love.

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun
by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the
sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout
joyously from the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,

Downcast midst vile sins,
From my innermost heart
I cry out, God unbounded!
Hear the mournful plaints
Of my grievous voice,
And in Thy compassion
Lend an ear of mercy!

Wouldst Thou our evils
Weigh, kind Father,
On Thine own justice's scale,
Who'd know such fortune,
Who in virtues be so firm,
That coming for true judgment,
Would not be condemned?

But Thou, gracious judge,
Punish not our erring ways
With deserved severity;
Thy law, with mercy filled,
And Thy faithful words, O Lord,

Have mercy on me, my Lord,
For a foe treds o'er me and strives
Mindfully that time and again
I be wearied by all adversity.

Cruelly he treds, proud in his throng,
Stifling me with cruelness undue;
Never's the day I'm free of him,
Nor is my night empty of grim fear.

Yet, be it day, be it night when
Pondrous fear doth oppress, kind Father,
Thou, my Defender, art my hope,
And in each need to the end shall be.

Whilst I, Lord, being assured
In Thy promises, neither blind
Human connivance, nor fierce threat,

"Gesang ist Dasein"

A small thing done well, the steel bit paring
the cut end of the collar, lifting delicate
blue spirals of iron slowly out of lamplight

into darkness until they broke and fell
into a pool of oil and water below.
A small thing done well, my father said

so often that I tired of hearing it and lost
myself in the shop's north end, an underworld
of welders who wore black masks and stared

through smoked glass where all was midnight
except the purest spark, the blue-white arc