I have been in love, and in debt, and in drink,
——This many and many a year;
And those three are plagues enough, one would think,
——For one poor mortal to bear.
'Twas drink made me fall into love,
——And love made me run into debt,
And though I have struggled and struggled and strove,
——I cannot get out of them yet.

——There 's nothing but money can cure me,
———And rid me of all my pain;
————'Twill pay all my debts,
———And remove all my lets,
——And my mistress, that cannot endure me,
———Will love me, and love me again:

In heavenly love abiding,
No change my heart shall fear;
And safe is such confiding,
For nothing changes here.
The storm may roar without me,
My heart may low be laid;
But God is round about me,
And can I be dismayed?

Wherever he may guide me,
No want shall turn me back;
My Shepherd is beside me,
And nothing can I lack.
His wisdom ever waketh,
His sight is never dim;
He knows the way he taketh,
And I will walk with him.

Green pastures are before me,
Which yet I have not seen;
Bright skies will soon be o'er me,

I VOW to thee, my country—all earthly things above—
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love,
The love that asks no question: the love that stands the test,
That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best:
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there's another country, I've heard of long ago—
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know—
We may not count her armies: we may not see her King—
Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering—

Deare Love, alas, how have I wronged thee,
That ceaselesly thou still dost follow me?
My heart of Diamond cleare, and hard I find,
May yet be pierc'd with one of the same kind,
Which hath in it ingraven a love more pure,
Then spotlesse white, and deepe still to endure,
Wrought in with teares of never resting paine,
Carv'd with the sharpest point of curs'd disdaine.
Raine oft doth wash away a slender marke,
Teares make mine firmer, and as one small sparke
In straw may make a fire: so sparkes of love
Kindles incessantly in me to move;

Where servants against masters do rebel,
The commonweal may be accounted hell.
For if the feet the head shall hold in scorn.
The city's state will fall, and be forlorn.
This error, London! waiteth on thy state!
Servants, amend; and masters, leave to hate!
Let Love abound; and Virtue reign in all,
So God will hold his hand, that threatneth thrall!

In whatso love-questing, wherein, Excepting fireflaught, there is not,
For amaze, if a harvest consume, Sure reason in aught there is not.

A bird, to whose heart it ne'er fell With sorrow to make acquaintance,
A branch on the tree of his life, With leaves of mirth fraught, there is not.

No help in Love's workshop there is For infidelity's presence:
What fuel is there for Hell-fire, If Boulehéb naught there is not?

In the soul-sellers' canon good works In toping consist and good breeding;
There lineage is not esteemed And reckoning sought there is not.

I love summer, the season of flowers,
When the birds sing beneath the bloom;
But I consider winter more pleasing,
For more enjoyment is accorded me;
And when one sees one's source of joy
It is right and proper
That one should be more charming and cheerful.

Now I have joy and am happy,
And my honor has been restored,
And never will I go elsewhere,
And I will not seek others' winnings,
For now I know indeed
That whoever waits is wise,
And whoever frets is a fool.

I have long been in distress,
And troubled about my situation

What are poets? Are they only drums commanding?
—Trumpets snarling, moving men to hate and ravage?
Were their songs of war the snares of Trade demanding
—Lives, and binding men to gods senile and savage?

What are soldiers? Only power, to be broken
—On the wheels of Business when there is no battle?
“War to end war,” was that but falsely spoken?
—Whom has war set free? Have rifles stopped their rattle?

Many suffer hunger while the few still plunder.
—Dreams of peace and brotherhood are all undone.

O, ye who gave to Ireland
Your love and life and all,
Who leaped into the flames of death
When rang her anguished call;
Pray, pray for us this Easter morn
That we may worthy be
Of Ireland's past, of all who died
On Ireland's Calvary.

As the windhover
Drops on the shrew,
Love, O young lover,
Swoops down on you,
Bears your heart heavenward,
Tears it in two;

Swift with his capture
Soars through the light—
Yours the fierce rapture
Of agonised flight,
Talon-torn, terror-winged,
Into blind night.