Short Poems

1. Now be the gospel banner In every land unfurled;
2. Yes, thou shalt reign forever, O Jesus, King of kings!
And be the shout hosanna Reechoed through the world;
Thy light, thy love, thy favor, Each ransomed captive sings.
Till every isle and nation, Till every tribe and tongue,
The isles for thee are waiting, The deserts learn thy praise,
Receive the great salvation, And join the happy throng.
The hills and valleys greeting, The song responsive raise.

Upon the Isle of Time we trace
The signs of many a vanished race:
But on the sea that laps it round,
No memory of man is found.

At a little grass-hut in the valley of the river,
Where a cloud seems born from a viney wall,
You will love the bamboos new with rain,
And mountains tender in the sunset.
Cranes drift early here to rest
And autumn flowers are slow to fade. . . .
I have bidden my pupil to sweep the grassy path
For the coming of my friend.

Time to pass with goodly sport
Our sprits to revive and comfort,
To pipe, to sing,
To dance, to spring,
With pleasure and delight
Following Sensual Appetite.

The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair
Mews at his knee for dainty fare;
Old Rover in his moss-greened house
Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse;
In the dewy fields the cattle lie
Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky;
Dobbin at manger pulls his hay:
Gone is another summer's day.

A crowned king,
On a white horse sitting
With his trumpets sounding
And Banners flying
Thro the clouds of smoke he makes his way
And the shout of his thousands fills his heart with rejoicing & victory
And the shout of his thousands fills his heart with rejoicing & victory
Victory Victory — twas William the prince of Orange

From Chap 8

Hear then the pride & knowledge of a Sailor
His sprit fore sail main sail & his mizen
A poor frail man god wot I know none frailer
I know no greater sinner than John Taylor

Then the Cynic sung
Honour & Genius is all I ask
And I ask the Gods no more
No more No more the three Philosophers bear Chorus
No more No more
Here Aradobo suckd his under lip

Flat lands on the end of town where real estate men are crying new sub-divisions,
The sunsets pour blood and fire over you hundreds and hundreds of nights, flat lands—blood and fire of sunsets thousands of years have been pouring over you.
And the stars follow the sunsets. One gold star. A shower of blue stars. Blurs of white and gray stars. Vast marching processions of stars arching over you flat lands where frogs sob this April night.
“Lots for Sale—Easy Terms” run letters painted on a board—and the stars wheel onward, the frogs sob this April night.

Mobs I abhor, yet bear a crowd
Which speaks its mind, if not too loud.
Willingly would I hear again
The honest words of pelted Payne.
Few dared such homely truths to tell,
Or wrote our English half so well.