And the guns begin the song,
‘Soldier, fly or stay for long.’
‘Comrade, if to turn and fly
Made a soldier never die,
Fly I would, for who would not?
‘Tis sure no pleasure to be shot.
‘But since the man that runs away
Lives to die another day,
And cowards’ funerals, when they come,
Are not wept so well at home,
‘Therefore, though the best is bad,
Stand and do the best, my lad;
Stand and fight and see your slain,
And take the bullet in your brain.’
And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air?Oh they’re taking him to prison for the color of his hair.‘Tis a shame to human nature, such a head of hair as his;In the good old time ’twas hanging for the color that it is;Though hanging isn’t bad enough and flaying would be fairFor the nameless…
And the ship of sunrise burningStrands upon the eastern rims.Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,Trampled to the floor it spanned,And the tent of night in tattersStraws the sky-pavilioned land.Up, lad, up, ’tis late for lying:Hear the drums of morning play;Hark, the empty highways crying‘Who’ll beyond the hills away?’Towns and countries woo together,Forelands beacon, belfries call;Never lad…
If at death’s own door he lies,Maiden, you can heal his ail.Lovers’ ills are all to buy:The wan look, the hollow tone,The hung head, the sunken eye,You can have them for your own.Buy them, buy them: eve and mornLovers’ ills are all to sell.Then you can lie down forlorn;But the lover will be well.
And as I was reading the novelA gnat flew away with my hat.As fast as a fraudulent bankerAway with my hat it fled,And calmly came to an anchorIn the midst of the cucumber-bed.I went and purchased a yachtAnd traversed the garden-tank,And I gave it that insect hotWhen I got to the other bank;Of its life…
And long I used to stand and lookAt things I could not buy.Now times are altered: if I careTo buy a thing, I can;The pence are here and here’s the fair,But where’s the lost young man?– – To think that two and two are fourAnd neither five nor threeThe heart of man has long been…
In aftermaths of soft SeptemberOr under blanching mays,For she and I were long acquaintedAnd I knew all her ways.On russet floors, by waters idle,The pine lets fall its cone;The cuckoo shouts all day at nothingIn leafy dells alone;And traveller’s joy beguiles in autumnHearts that have lost their own.On acres of the seeded grassesThe changing burnish…
