On Fridays he'd open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
Taller than men. He would beg,
Promising to never beat her
Again. Somehow I was happy
She had gone, & sometimes wanted
To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou
Williams' " Polka Dots & Moonbeams "
Never made the swelling go down.
His carpenter's apron always bulged
With old nails, a claw hammer
Looped at his side & extension cords
Coiled around his feet.

1

Honest lover whosoever,
If in all thy love there ever
Was one wav'ring thought, if thy flame
Were not still even, still the same:
Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss;
And, to love true,
Thou must begin again, and love anew.

2

If when she appears i' th' room,
Thou dost not quake, and are struck dumb,
And, in striving this to cover,
Dost not speak thy words twice over:
Know this,
Thou lov'st amiss;

Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets within your pipe, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say I'm growing old — but add,
G. M. Trevelyan wanted me to deliver a Clark Lecture.

Yours sincerely, and with deep regret,

If it be love, in every pulse's tide
To feel a secret pure devoted flame
And with feign'd smiles unceasing torture hide
Deep in the soul — my passion has a name!

If it be love, to live but in one thought,
To breathe but for another — weal or woe
Only to feel when from another caught
This, this is Love! ... I feared it must be so!

If it be Love, to worship night and day
One object — On a fond heart's faithful shrine

He came: and down through the gathering shadows
The stars flashed far with a sudden light;
Sweet perfume stole from the damp, dark meadows,
Glory and gladness filled the night.

He went: and over the morning's splendor
A darkness swept to its shining rim;
Earth's throbbing heart-beats glad and tender
Hushed to a silence deep and dim.

Ah dearest love! The ebbing and flowing
Of time and its seasons are naught to me;
Still is it winter when thou art going,
And summer whenever thy face I see.

XX.
What thing is love but mourning?
What desire, but a selfe-burning?
Till shee that hates doth love returne,
Thus will I mourne, thus will I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Beautie is but a blooming,
Youth in his glorie entombing;
Time hath a wheel which none can stay:
Then come away, while thus I sing,
Come away, come away, my darling.

Sommer in winter fadeth,

Hey noyney! I will love our Sir John and I love eny.

O Lord, so swet Sir John dothe kis,
At every time when he wolde pley!
Of himselfe so plesant he is —
I have no powre to say him nay.

Sir John loves me and I love him;
The more I love him, the more I maye.
He says, " Swet hart, cum kis me trim " —
I have no powre to say him nay.

Sir John to me is profering
For his plesure right well to pay,
And in my box he puttes his offring —
I have no powre to say him nay.

Sir John is taken in my mouse trappe;

Somer is comen with love to toune,
With blostme, and with brides roune.
The note of hasel springeth,
The dewes darkneth in the dale.
For longing of the nightegale,
Thes foweles murye singeth.

Ic herde a strif bitweyes two —
That on of wele, that other of wo:
Bitwene two ifere.
That on hereth wimmen that hoe beth hende,

That other hem wole with mighte shende.
That strif ye mowen ihere.

The nightingale is on by nome
That wol shilden hem from shome,
Of skathe hoe wole hem skere;
The threstelcok hem kepeth ay,

Cast up a wreck by Fortune's tide,
The ebbing wave in this lone bay
Has left me by the ocean's side
Mouldering in sure and slow decay;
Love, Hope, Fame, Power, have past away
And with them Joy and Grief and Pride
I live but in my thoughts, and they
Are of the things that long have died!

Who claims that death is one cold, endless sleep,
Has never felt love's gladness in his soul, —
Has never made a woman's heart his goal,
Nor from red lips a harvest tried to reap.
Why should we love if graves are made to keep
Body and spirit in their calm control,
While waves of pulseless slumber o'er us roll,
And centuries unheeded by us sweep!
Who solves the mystery held by one sweet kiss, —
Who reads the song that shines in brilliant eyes, —
Who gathers wisdom from warm, fragrant breath, —