Witness not the sages of the past,
Perceive not the wise of the future,
Reflecting on heaven and earth eternal,
Tears flowing down I lament in loneliness.
Here I sit
With my shoes mismated.
Lawdy-mercy!
I's frustrated!
Back turned without thought
careless crossings of tired eyes
malice unspoken
back home from work
in front of the mirror
my mask falls off
...
Baby in the cauldron fell, --
See the grief on Mother's brow;
Mother loved her darling well, --
Darling's quite hard-boiled by now.
Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel -
Not mere tongues dividing, but soul from soul,
So that never again should men be able
To fashion one infinite, towering whole.
Ay, workman, make me a dream,
A dream for my love.
Cunningly weave sunlight,
Breezes, and flowers.
Let it be of the cloth of meadows.
And -- good workman --
And let there be a man walking thereon.
Let him who toils, enjoy
Fruit of his toiling.
Let him whom sweats annoy,
No more be spoiling.
For we would have it be
That, weak or stronger,
Not he who works, but he
Who works not, hunger!
Away, thou shalt not love me.
So shall my love seem greater
And I shall love the better.
Shall it be so? what say you?
Why speak you not I pray you?
Nay then I know you love me
That so you may disprove me.
When a man grows a moustache,
his eyebrows want to hide in his ears.
