Close by the elevated the worst of the back-yards lie,
Barren, desolate spaces under an ashen sky,
Bottles and boxes and papers and pieces of glass and tin,
And rotted boards of fencing that shut the scrap-heap in.

Hopeless, dreary ash-piles — and yet there is laughter here;
And hearts bowed down with labor still trace the round of the year,
When the rays of first spring sunshine strike through the dingy pane,
And the broken, rag-stuffed windows are stripped of their rags again.

For over the dust and ashes roll surges of conquering life,

We, who must grow old and staid,
Full of wisdom, much afraid,
In our hearts like flowers keep
Love for you until we sleep.

You the brave, and you the young
You of a thousand songs unsung,
Burning brain, and ardent word,
You the lovely and absurd.

Say, on that Galician plain
Are you arguing again?
Does a trench or ruined tree
Hear your — " O, I don't agree!"

We, who must grow staid and old,
Full of caution, worn and cold,
In our hearts, like flowers keep
Your image, till we also sleep.

Fond wanton youths make loue a God,
Which after proueth ages rod,
Their youth, their time, their wit, their arte,
They spend in seeking of their smarte
And which of follies is the chiefe,
They wooe their woe, they wedde their griefe.

All finde it so who wedded are,
Loues sweetes they find enfold sowre care:
His pleasures pleasingst in the eie,
Which tasted once, with lothing die:
They find of follies tis the chiefe,
Their woe to wooe to wedde their griefe.

If for their owne content they choose,

Naturall comparisons with perfect loue

The lowest Trees haue tops, the Ante her gall,
The flie her splene, the little sparkes their heate:
The slender haires cast shadowes, though but small,
And Bees haue stings, although they be not great:
Seas haue their sourse, & so haue shallow springs,
And loue is loue, in Beggars, as in Kings.

Where riuers smoothest run, deepe are the foords,
The Diall stirres, yet none perceiues it mooue:
The firmest faith is in the fewest wordes,

A Nimphs disdaine of Loue.

Hey downe a downe did Dian sing,
amongst her Virgins sitting:
Then loue there is no vainer thing,
for Maydens most vnfitting,
And so think I, with a downe downe derrie.

When women knew no woe,
but liu'd them-selues to please:
Mens fayning guiles they did not know,

Farewell false loue, the oracle of lyes,
A mortal foe, & enimie to rest:
An enuious boy, from whome all cares aryse,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possest:
A way of error, a temple ful of treason,
In all effects contrarie vnto reason.

A poysoned serpent couered all with flowers,
Mother of sighes, and murtherer of repose,
A sea of sorows fr├Á whece are drawe such showers,
As moysture lend to euerie griefe that growes,
A school of guile, a net of deepe deceit,
A guilded hooke, that holds a poysoned bayte.

Brother of mine that might have been,
But never was born to this changing life
Yourself to be changed by this world of strife,
Strong, how strong! — is the bond between
Me that must live and struggle and die,
And you that remained in eternity.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Often I wanted and cried for you,
Someone to love and cherish and fight,
Someone to be what the others might

Of lingeringe Loue.

1.

In lingeringe Loue mislikinge growes,
Whereby our fancies ebbs and flowes:
We love to day, and hate to morne,
And dayly wher we list to scorne.
Take heede therfore,
If she mislike, then love no more:
Quicke speed makes waste,
Loue is not gotten in such haste.

2.

The sute is colde that soone is done,
The forte is feeble easly wonne:
The haulke that soone comes by her pray,
may take a Toye and sore away.

M ANKUMARI

I seek the lofty heart of the great. Give me not treasure of pearls and jewels, O God. I desire not dominion in this world, nor honour. If I gain the heart I desire, I will pour out my life, worthless though it be, and will beg manhood, the greatest thing of all. I worship a heart, a heart worthy of worship.

Who shall remember love
At the break of day
When the wind blows out to sea
From the circling bay?
Who shall remember love
At the end of night
When the nested birds of the dark
Have taken flight?
When white is the path of the foam
And the waves are filled with light,
Who shall remember love?