English

Not in our waking hours alone
His constancy and care are known;
But locked in slumber fast and deep
He giveth to us while we sleep.

What giveth He? From toil release,
Quiet from God, night's starlit peace;
Till with the coming of the morn
We greet the day, like it new-born.

And pondering this mystery,
There came a larger truth to me,—
How in the sleep that we call death
He sleepeth not nor slumbereth,

But still sustains the silent soul
Until the shadows backward roll,
And with the passing of the night

Here where the swaying dancers float,
The heady perfume swimming round
Your slender arms and virginal throat
Thrills me though riper loves abound.

The passionate eyes and lids of her
Whose face gleams white in many a fold
Of coiling wondrous sombre hair,
The blue eyes in the wreath of gold,

These turn to me in vain, who prize
You more than all the loves and lyres,
For from your unfilled corsage rise
The perfumes that my soul desires.

Ah might I dance for ever, bent
Toward your bosom's clouded gleam,

A thousand walls immure your days,—and yet
What are they all when, of the thousand, one
Has fallen beneath the curious urge and fret
Of you toward me, of me toward you begun?
When the first fell, I shuddered half-aghast;
The second, now a-crumble in my sight,
Predicts less thunder than the fall late past;
And I await the third with clear delight.
Mingled with all the phantoms of my fear
Are lights of utter lure. Wherefore I choose
To linger watching, though right well I bear
Knowledge that naught's to gain and much to lose,—

It needs no maxims drawn from Socrates
To tell me this is madness in my blood.
Nor does what wisdom I have learned from these
Serve to abate my most unreasoned mood.
What would I of you? What gift could you bring,
That to await you in the common street
Sets all my secret ecstasy awing
Into wild regions of sublime retreat?
And if you come, you will speak common words,
Smiling as quite ten thousand others smile—
And I, poor fool, shall thrill with ghostly chords,
And with a dream my sober sense beguile,

Look heah! Is I evah tole you 'bout de curious way I won
Anna Liza? Say, I nevah? Well heah's how de thing wuz done.

Lize, you know, wuz mighty purty—dat's been forty yeahs ago—
'N' 'cos to look at her dis minit, you might'n s'pose dat it wuz so.

She wuz jes de greates' 'traction in de country, 'n' bless de Lam'!
Eveh lovin' man wuz co'tin', but it lay 'twix me an' Sam.

You know Sam. We both wuz wu'kin' on de ole John Tompkin's place.
'N' evehbody wuz a-watchin' t'see who's gwine to win de race.

Kanzo Makame, the diver, sturdy and small Japanee,
Seeker of pearls and of pearl-shell down in the depths of the sea,
Trudged o'er the bed of the ocean, searching industriously.

Over the pearl-grounds, the lugger drifted—a little white speck:
Joe Nagasaki, the ‘tender’, holding the life-line on deck,
Talked through the rope to the diver, knew when to drift or to check.

Kanzo was king of his lugger, master and diver in one,
Diving wherever it pleased him, taking instructions from none;

Where , countless as the stars of night,
The daisies made a milky way
Across fresh lawns, and flecked with light,
Old Ilex groves walled round with bay,—

I saw thee stoop, oh lady sweet,
And with those pale, frail hands of thine
Gather the spring flowers at our feet,
Fair as some late-born Proserpine.

Yea, gathering flowers, thou might'st have been
That goddess of the ethereal brow,
Revisiting this radiant scene
From realm of dolorous shades below.

Thou might'st have been that Queen of Sighs,

He only said, ‘I'm very weary.’
The rheumatiz he said,
He said, ‘It's awful dull and dreary.
I think I'll go to bed.’

I've just seen Mrs Hopkins—and read her the lines,
(And they'll do for the mirror in print, she opines;)—
And so pray keep the book—till you've copied the rhyme,
For I shan't be in want of it now for some time.

I got home about five o'clock yesterday night—
As I fancy too you must have done—while 'twas light;—
For I saw you at Houghton—(I stood on the ridge
Upon Bury Hill side,)—and ride over the bridge.

I have sent you these numbers, by Robert—they'll be
An amusement perhaps to inspect after tea;—

World wide over this is said:
“I don't want to go to bed.”
Dads and mothers, far and near,
Every night this chorus hear;
Makes no difference where they are,
Here or off in Zanzibar,
In the igloos made of snow
Of the fur-clad Eskimo,
In the blistering torrid zone,
This one touch of nature's known;
In life's various tongues it's said:
“I don't want to go to bed!”

This has ever been the way
Of the youngsters at their play.
Laughter quickly dries their tears,
Trouble swiftly disappears,