English

3.

At Stagira lies Saint Belle
and there lies also the body of Aristotle.
And you shall understand
that her bones are anointed
with the gum of plum trees
and that all men are used
to attend her grave on Lent.

And men say that in her youth
she was led into a garden of Caiaphas
and there she was crowned
with the sweet thorn called barbariens.

But now this is no more
but a tablet seven cubits long
above her head
on which the title is written
in Hebrew, Greek and Latin

1.

The king shall understand
that Yahweh is
Lord of four kingdoms.
There is the kingdom of fire
that is the compend of His word.
And the kingdom of the earth
of which men say that it was Eden
(now but merchants)
And the kingdom of the air
where birds make offering to our Lord
for His benevolent attitude.
And finally there is the kingdom of water,
history of many winds
and sailors in their salty coffins.
Certainly
our Lord is like the apex in the south

2

Sandalwood comes to my mind
when I think of you
and the triumph of your shoulders.
Greek chorus girls came to me
in the course of the day
and from a distance
Celtic vestals too,
but you bring me the Holy Land
and the sound of deep themes
in the inner chamber.

I give you praise
in the language
of wells and vineyards.

Your hand recalls
the salty heat of barbarism.
Your mouth is a pouch
for the accents of queens
Your eyes flow over
with a gentle psalm

Ode III

Of late, what time the Beare turn'd round
At midnight in her woonted way,
And men of all sorts slept full sound,
O'recome with labour of the day.

The God of Love came to my dore,
And tooke the ring and knockt it hard.
Who's there, quoth I, that knocks so sore,
You breake my sleepe, my dreames are marde?

A little boy forsooth, quoth hee,
Dung-wet with raine this Moonelesse night;
With that mee thought it pittied mee,
I ope the dore, and candle light.

And straight a little boy I spide,

On May-day, when the lark began to rise,
To matins went the lusty nightingale
Within a temple shapen hawthorn-wise;
He might not sleep in all the nightertale,
But " Domine labia ", gan he cry and gale,
" My lips open, Lord of Love, I cry,
And let my mouth thy praising now bewrye."

The eagle sang " Venite , bodies all,

Some people hang portraits up
In a room where they dine or sup:
And the wife clinks tea-things under,
And her cousin, he stirs his cup,
Asks, " Who was the lady, I wonder?"
" 'Tis a daub John bought at a sale,"
Quoth the wife, — looks black as thunder:
" What a shade beneath her nose!
Snuff-taking, I suppose, — "
Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail.
Or else, there's no wife in the case,
But the portrait's queen of the place,

VERSE 1 SHE :

Relax for one moment, my Jerry,
Come out of your dark monastery,
While Venus is beaming above.
Darling, let's talk about love.

REFRAIN 1

Let's talk about love, that wonderful thing,
Let's blend the scent of Venice with Paris in spring,
Let's gaze at that moon and try to believe
We're Venus and Adonis, or Adam and Eve.
Let's throw away anxiety, let's quite forget propriety,
Respectable society, the rector and his piety,

VERSE 1

Nowadays, it's rather nobby
To regard one's private hobby
As the object of one's tenderest affections;
Some excel at Alpine climbing
Others have a turn for rhyming,
While a lot of people go in for collections.

Such as prints by Hiroshigi,
Edelweiss from off the Rigi,
Jacobean soup tureens,
Early types of limousines,
Pipes constructed from a dry cob,
Baseball hits by Mister Ty Cobb,
Locks of Mrs. Browning's hair,
Photographs of Ina Claire,

REFRAIN Both

Ye children of my fondest care,
With tenderest love, and frequent prayer,
This solemn charge, my voice has given,
To prompt, and guide, your steps to heaven.
Your present welfare now demands
A different tribute, from my hands.

Not long since liv'd a Farmer plain,
Intent to gather honest gain,
Laborious, prudent, thirsty, neat,
Of judgment strong, experience great,
In solid homespun clad, and tidy,
And with no coxcomb learning giddy.
Daily, to hear his maxims sound,

The 21th: and last booke of the Ocean to Scinthia

Sufficeth it to yow my joyes interred,
in simpell wordes that I my woes cumplayne,
Yow that then died when first my fancy erred.
joyes under dust that never live agayne:
If to the livinge weare my muse adressed,
or did my minde her own spirrit still inhold,
weare not my livinge passion so repressed,
as to the dead, the dead did thes unfold,
sume sweeter wordes, sume more becumming vers,
should wittness my myshapp in hygher kynd.
but my loves wounds, my fancy in the hearse,