English

Minde well all this, nor let it fly thy powrs,
To knowe what fits, the white springs earely flowrs;
Nor when raines timely fall; Nor when sharp colde
In winters wrath, doth men from worke withholde
Sit by smiths forges, nor warme tavernes hant;
Nor let the bitterest of the season dant
Thy thrift-arm'd paines, like idle Povertie ;
For then the time is when th'industrious Thie
Upholdes, with all increase, his Familie.
With whose rich hardnes spirited, do thou,
Poore Delicacie flie; lest frost and snowe,

Oh! would I had my Hours of Life began
Before this fifth, this sinful, Race of Man;
Or had I not been call'd to breathe the Day,
Till the rough Iron Age had pass'd away!
For now, the Times are such, the Gods ordain,
That ev'ry Moment shall be wing'd with Pain;
Condemn'd to Sorrows, and to Toil, we live;
Rest to our Labour Death alone can give;
And yet amid the Cares our Lives anoy,
The Gods will grant some Intervals of Joy:
But how degenerate is the human State!
Virtue no more distinguishes the Great;

Then formd our Father Jove a third Descent;
Whose Age was brazen; clearely different
From that of Silver. All the Mortalls there,
Of wilde Ashe fashiond; stubborne and austere;
Whose Mindes the harmefull facts of Mars affected;
And Petulant Injurie . All Meates rejected,
Of Naturall fruits, and Hearbs. And these were They,
That first began that Table Cruelty,
Of slaughtering Beasts; And therefore grew they fierce;
And not to be indur'd, in their Commerce.

Cold, deserted and silent,
She winds on without an eye lent,
Except perhaps from a stranger,
Himself a lonely ranger.

Trees are bare and still,
Seeming deathly ill
In the dead of Winter;
Yet without dissenter.

Thoughts go back to Summer,
When happily from her
We took joy galore
From her lively shore.

Yet, the scene presents a thrill
Though Summer now is nil;
Winter has a place
No season can erase.

The world has held great Heroes,
As history-books have showed;
But never a name to go down to fame
Compared with that of Toad!

The clever men at Oxford
Know all that there is to be knowed.
But they none of them knew one half as much
As intelligent Mr. Toad!

The animals sat in the Ark and cried,
Their tears in torrents flowed.
Who was it said, " There's land ahead " ?

All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all!

Ducks' tails, drakes' tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight
Busy in the river!

Slushy green undergrowth
Where the roach swim —
Here we keep our larder,
Cool and full and dim.

Every one for what he likes!
We like to be
Heads down, tails up,
Dabbling free!

High in the blue above
Swifts whirl and call —
We are down a-dabbling
Up tails all!

Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There's something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.
I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves;
That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath,

When April pours the colours of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak,
We shall live well — we shall live very well.

The months between the cherries and the peaches
Are brimming cornucopias which spill
Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black;
Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill

The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold,
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The spring begins before the winter's over.
By February you may find the skins

When the world turns completely upside down
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town,
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.