English

PURPOSE

So then, at last, let me awake this sleep
And languor of yourself: it is too deep,
And 't is too long!
Oh, I would have you look
With judgment on your life, and not to brook
The less in art, as not in truth; — forgive
Much in you now I can, never that you less live!
I may put by whatever choice of themes,
But not this air of being by rich dreams
Roofed over, and floored under, and walled in.
As Eastern princes in a palanquin

It may be 'tis observ'd, I want Relations,
Guifts-qualifying, or those Commendations
That should advance my Suites; and, which do make
Those active, who, mens Causes undertake;
And I halfe think it so: For, e'er this day,
Some one or other had, els, gotten way
For my Petitions; or appeared able
To make my suites and me considerable;
Since, others who have neither lo[s]t, nor spent,
Nor for the Publike, hazzarded or lent
Life, Limb, or money; (yea, though they, before,
Had profitable places) meet with more

Climb at Court for me that will
Tottering favors Pinacle;
All I seek is to lye still.
Settled in some secret Nest
In calm Leisure let me rest;
And far off the publick Stage
Pass away my silent Age.
Thus when without noise, unknown,
I have liv'd out all my span,
I shall dye, without a groan,
An old honest Country man
Who expos'd to others Ey's,
Into his own Heart ne'r pry's,
Death to him 's a Strange surprise.

SONG FOR FINE WEATHER

O good Sun,
Look thou down upon us:
Shine, shine on us, O Sun,
Gather up the clouds, wet, black, under thy arms —
That the rains may cease to fall.
Because thy friends are all here on the beach
Ready to go fishing —
Ready for the hunt.
Therefore look kindly on us, O Good Sun!
Give us peace within our tribe
And with all our enemies.
Again, again, we call —
Hear us, hear us, O Good Sun!

THE BEAR'S SONG

I have taken the woman of beauty
For my wife;
I have taken her from her friends.
I hope her kinsmen will not come
And take her away from me.
I will be kind to her.
Berries, berries I will give her from the hill
And roots from the ground.
I will do everything to please her.
For her I made this song and for her I sing it.

The Way of the Air

The way of the air is by clouds to speak
And by clouds to be silent.
The way of the air is a progress
From treachery to repentance.
The air is the freedom to hope.
You breathe your hopes,
And are glad, and live.
And there are clouds.
There are clouds which betray your hopes.
To whom? To your Conscience, which is not you.
And you are ashamed, and the clouds tear.
By the conscienceless air you live,
But by Conscience, your mouth's tight seal,
You die, you are what you are only.

Not All Immaculate

Yet it is not all immaculate death —
Not all a folding to of covers
Punctually, by time's trembling hands.
There is (unreadable) a motley clatter
After that day of instantaneousness
Has summoned instant night from night.
There is a panic of stained steps
Along pale streets conspiring backwards
Into remembered days like bedrooms
Slow with oversleeping, timeless.
It is not all a tidy ending, dawning
Of a picture-page whereon tidily, briefly,
The world is told of by a thinnest light —

Nor Is It Written

Nor is it written that you may not grieve.
There is no rule of joy, long may you dwell
Not smiling yet in that last pain,
On that last supper of the heart.
It is not written that you must take joy
Because not thus again shall you sit down
To ply the mingled banquet
Which the deep larder of illusion shed
Like myth in time grown not astonishing.
Lean to the cloth awhile, and yet awhile,
And even may your eyes caress
Proudly the used abundance.
It is not written in what heart

This night there is a child born
That sprang out of Jesse's thorn,
We must sing and say thereforn,
Verbum Caro factum est .

Jesus is the child's name
And Mary mild is His dame,
All our sorrow shall turn to game,
Verbum Caro factum est.

III

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,
In a green garden in mid month of May.

Violets and lilies grew on every side
Mid the green grass, and the young flowers wonderful,
Golden and white and red and azure-eyed;
Toward which I stretched my hands, eager to pull
Plenty to make my fair curls beautiful,
To crown my rippling curls with garlands gay.

I went a roaming, maidens, one bright day,