English

My mother was a proud, proud woman,
A proud, proud woman and a bold;
She sent me to Queen Marie's bour,
When scarcely eleven years old.

Queen Marie's bread it was sae sweet,
An her wine it was sae fine,
That I hae lien in a young man's arms,
An I rued it aye synsyne.

Queen Marie she cam doon the stair,
Wi the goud kamis in her hair:
‘Oh whare, oh whare is the wee wee babe
I heard greetin sae sair?’

‘It's no a babe, a babie fair,
Nor ever intends to be;
But I mysel, wi a sair colic,

There lives a knight into the north,
And he had daughters three;
The ane of them was a barber's wife,
The other a gay ladie.

And the youngest of them is to Scotland gane,
The queen's Mary to be,
And a' that they could say or do,
Forbidden she woudna be.

The prince's bed it was sae saft,
The spices they were sae fine,
That out of it she couldna lye
While she was scarse fifteen.

She 's gane to the garden gay
To pu of the savin tree;
But for a' that she could say or do,

Ich am of Irlonde
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlonde.
Gode sire, pray ich thee,
For of saynte charite,
Come ant dance wyth me

Boccaccio, for you laughed all laughs that are—
The Cynic scoff, the chuckle of the churl,
The laugh that ripples over reefs of pearl,
The broad, the sly, the hugely jocular;
Men call you lewd, and coarse, allege you mar
The music that, withdrawn your ribald skirl,
Were sweet as note of mavis or of merle—
Wherefore they frown, and rate you at the bar.
One thing is proved: To count the sad degrees
Upon the Plague's dim dial, catch the tone
Of a great death that lies upon a land,
Feel nature's ties, yet hold with steadfast hand

Along all ways the path of triumph lies;
All places own the victor's art,—
To do that greater thing than win the prize,
Lose it, unhurt in hope, in heart.

These are the city's poets,
These people in the park,
Who sit and watch slow shadows
Melt into the dark;

Who come on Maytime evenings
Or on rich nights of June,
And see above the treetops
The bubble of the moon;

Who listen to the fountain
That tinkles all day long,
And let its echo lodge with them,
An anthem and a song.

Young lovers loiter gladly
In many a leafy place,
And look with the old wonder
Into each other's face.

These are the happy poets
Whom nothing can dismay,

Reaching for the vinegar over the range hood
(still dashing grass wisps on the gas flames
from the exhaust vent where we booted
that brooding sparrow)

I remember the rabbit in the Tiergarten
that perched on its spatula feet where the grass
had just started to green. The German clouds
were unibrow.

It's not the stretching, slightly weaving, that recalls it,
it's the tang of vinegar, Easter egg dye solvent.
And my gallimaufry gets going, guests for dinner,
the requisite foofaraw.

We are here in a wood of little beeches;
And the leaves are like black lace
Against a sky of nacre.

One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.

It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me.
He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh,
Stilling it in an eternal peace;
Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands
Toward him,
And is eased of its hunger.

And I know that this passes—
This implacable fury and torment of men—
As a thing insensate and vain.
And the stillness hath said unto me,

The fatal hours are wondrous near,
That from these fountains bear my dear;
A little space is given; in vain:
She robs my sight, and shuns the plain.

A little space, for me to prove
My boundless flame, my endless love;
And, like the train of vulgar hours,
Invidious Time that space devours.

Near yonder beech is Delia's way,
On that I gaze the livelong day;
No eastern monarch's dazzling pride
Should draw my longing eyes aside.

The chief that knows of succours nigh,
And sees his mangled legions die,