Who can remember back to the first poets,
The greatest ones, greater even than Orpheus?
No one has remembered that far back
Or now considers, among the artifacts,
And bones and cantilevered inference
The past is made of, those first and greatest poets,
So lofty and disdainful of renown
They left us not a name to know them by.

They were the ones that in whatever tongue
Worded the world, that were the first to say
Star, water, stone, that said the visible
And made it bring invisibles to view

stuck in the rain on the freeway, 6:15 p.m.,
these are the lucky ones, these are the
dutifully employed, most with their radios on as loud
as possible as they try not to think or remember.

this is our new civilization: as men
once lived in trees and caves now they live
in their automobiles and on freeways as

the local news is heard again and again while
we shift from first gear to second and back to first.

there's a poor fellow stalled in the fast lane ahead, hood
up, he's standing against the freeway fence

Eternally the choking steam goes up
From the black pools of seething oil. . . .
How merry
Those little devils are! They've stolen the pitchfork
From Bel, there, as he slept . . . Look! -- oh look, look!
They've got at Nero! Oh it isn't fair!
Lord, how he squeals! Stop it . . . it's, well -- indecent!
But funny! . . . See, Bel's waked. They'll catch it now!

. . . Eternally that stifling reek arises,
Blotting the dome with smoky, terrible towers,
Black, strangling trees, whispering obscene things

Year after year the artist wrought
With earnest, loving care,
The music flooding all his soul
To pour upon the air.

For this no metal was too rare,
He counted not the cost;
Nor deemed the years in which he toiled
As labor vainly lost.

When morning flushed with crimson light
The golden gates of day,
He longed to fill the air with chimes
Sweet as a matin's lay.

And when the sun was sinking low
Within the distant West,
He gladly heard the bells he wrought
Herald the hour of rest.

Up the old hill to the old house again
Where fifty years ago the friend was young
Who should be waiting somewhere there among
Old things that least remembered most remain,
He toiled on with a pleasure that was pain
To think how soon asunder would be flung
The curtain half a century had hung
Between the two ambitions they had slain.

They dredged an hour for words, and then were done.
“Good-bye!… You have the same old weather-vane—
Your little horse that’s always on the run.”
And all the way down back to the next train,

1 Dere 'a s beeg jam up de reever, w'ere rapide is runnin' fas',
2 An' de log we cut las' winter is takin' it all de room;
3 So boss of de gang is swearin', for not'ing at all can pass
4 An' float away down de current till somebody break de boom.

5 'Here 's for de man will tak' de job, holiday for a week
6 Extra monee w'en pay day come, an' ten dollar suit of clothes.
7 'T is n't so hard work run de log, if only you do it quick--
8 W'ere 's de man of de gang den is ready to say, ` Here goes?''

Oh, here the air is sweet and still,
And soft's the grass to lie on;
And far away's the little hill
They took for Christ to die on.

And there's a hill across the brook,
And down the brook's another;
But, oh, the little hill they took,—
I think I am its mother!

The moon that saw Gethsemane,
I watch it rise and set:
It has so many things to see,
They help it to forget.

But little hills that sit at home
So many hundred years,
Remember Greece, remember Rome,
Remember Mary's tears.

And far away in Palestine,

The little box gets her first teeth
And her little length
Little width little emptiness
And all the rest she has

The little box continues growing
The cupboard that she was inside
Is now inside her

And she grows bigger bigger bigger
Now the room is inside her
And the house and the city and the earth
And the world she was in before

The little box remembers her childhood
And by a great longing
She becomes a little box again

Now in the little box
You have the whole world in miniature

OFT, in the stilly night,
   Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
   Of other days around me:
   The smiles, the tears
   Of boyhood's years,
   The words of love then spoken;
   The eyes that shone,
   Now dimm'd and gone,
   The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
   Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light

1899-1902 -- Boer War


Let us admit it fairly, as a business people should,
We have had no end of a lesson: it will do us no end of good.

Not on a single issue, or in one direction or twain,
But conclusively, comprehensively, and several times and
again,

Were all our most holy illusions knocked higher than Gilde-
roy's kite.
We have had a jolly good lesson, and it serves us jolly well
right !

This was not bestowed us under the trees, nor yet in the shade
of a tent,