When reason & religion goes a benting
Christianity grows lean as specters — and
Pines off to somthing else — none seem repenting
But each get notions none else understand
Wives from their husbands pare off unrelenting
& like pined piegons mope about the land
Couple's awake go silently & dreaming
& love & faith & madness are but seeming.

The baffled dreamer, the defeated Christ
That for your love upon the cross-tree hung —
O take Him to your bosom, give Him rest
Close at the wanton wonder of your breast,
O carnal World, forever well and young!

Beautiful gravel walks overgrown
with moss & grass little places where
the poet sat to write.

Sweet songs, half whispering to me in the solitude
Of sweeter melody they might have sung,
And phantom flowers that scent for me the leafy wood
With wraiths of the perfume they might have flung.
Sweet faces smiling dimly through the shadowy light,
Ghosts of the full perfection that had shown,
Had not the sun gone down ere it was night,
Leaving but shadows of the unfulfilled, alone.

What I wish? What? — — Oh, there are so many wishes, and their host is so eager for a sally, that at times it seems that by their inward agitation my brain will burn and my breast will burst. What I wish? — — Everything, in all its fulness! I thirst to know, I yearn for deeds, I still desire to love with senseless pining, I want to feel the whole thrill of life!

Since doubtless 'tis true, as by Scripture we're told,
That Hell is the hypocrite's share,
Put on a black wig for the sake of thy soul,
And look like a rogue, as you are.

On a certain Scribbler.

Word-valiant wight, thou great he-shrew,
That wrangles to no end;
Since nonsence is nor false nor true
Thou'rt no man's foe or friend.

Into your clefts you have received the poet, granite rocks of Finland, eternal granites, guardian heroes of the land of the glacial crown. With the lyre he is among you. His greeting is a greeting to the masses of the rock, contemporaneous with the world. Like them may he for ever be unchangeable!

What happy thoughts the summer yields
Like woman soft & fair
The voice of love is in the fields
While music fills the air.

To Death's grim shades let meaner spirits fly,
Here rests John C AMPBELL , who shall never die.