PART I 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu—whit! Tu—whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Ave Faustina Imperatrix, morituri te salutant. Lean back, and get some minutes' peace; Let your head lean Back to the shoulder with its fleece Of locks, Faustine.
[Introduction] Lo now! four other acts upon the stage, Childhood, and Youth, the Manly, and Old-age. The first: son unto Phlegm, grand-child to water, Unstable, supple, moist, and cold’s his Nature. The second: frolic claims his pedigree; From blood and air, for hot and moist is he. The third of fire and choler is compos’d, Vindicative, and quarrelsome dispos’d. The last, of earth and heavy melancholy, Solid, hating all lightness, and all folly. Childhood was cloth’d in white, and given to show, His spring was intermixed with some snow. Upon his head a Garland Nature set: Of Daisy, Primrose, and the Violet.
Why is the word pretty so underrated? In November the leaf is pretty when it falls The stream grows deep in the woods after rain And in the pretty pool the pike stalks
He stalks his prey, and this is pretty too, The prey escapes with an underwater flash But not for long, the great fish has him now The pike is a fish who always has his prey
The Duchess of Gloucester will open hae ye ever been in Bedlam hinny the Sir Walter Scott Bicentenary Exhibition are ye no fair deaved wi the skirling in Parliament House Edinburgh on August 15 I never laughed sae muckle afore Sir Walter’s descendants I’ll rive every dud aff their backs
I sat on the Dogana’s steps For the gondolas cost too much, that year, And there were not “those girls”, there was one face, And the Buccentoro twenty yards off, howling, “Stretti”, And the lit cross-beams, that year, in the Morosini, And peacocks in Koré’s house, or there may have been. Gods float in the azure air, Bright gods and Tuscan, back before dew was shed.
Such are the little memories of you; They come and go, return and lie apart From all main things of life; yet more than they, With noiseless feet, they come and grip the heart. Gay laughter leading quick and stormy tears, Then smiles again and pulse of flying feet, In breathless chase of fleeting gossamers, Are memories so dear, so bitter-sweet.
Ages passed slowly, like a load of hay, As the flowers recited their lines And pike stirred at the bottom of the pond. The pen was cool to the touch. The staircase swept upward Through fragmented garlands, keeping the melancholy Already distilled in letters of the alphabet.
I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it— Came out with a fortune last fall,— Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn’t all.
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