The clouds are grown too nigh of late, 'Tis the first lightning I await. TREE IN AUTUMN Why did ye, blockheads, me awaken While I in blissful blindness stood? Ne'er I by fear more fell was shaken-- Vanished my golden dreaming mood. Bear-elephants, with trunks all greedy, Knock first! Where have your manners fled? I threw--and fear has made me speedy-- Dishes of ripe fruit--at your head. AMONG FOES (OR AGAINST CRITICS) (_After a Gipsy Proverb_) Here the gallows, there the cord, And the hangman's ruddy beard. Round, the venom-glancing horde:-- Nothing new to me's appeared. Many times I've seen the sight, Now laughing in your face I cry, "Hanging me is useless quite: Die? Nay, nay, I cannot die!" Beggars all! Ye envy me Winning what ye never won! True, I suffer agony, But for you--your life is done. Many times I've faced death's plight, Yet steam and light and breath am I. Hanging me is useless quite: Die? Nay, nay, I cannot die! THE NEW COLUMBUS[8] "Dearest," said Columbus, "never Trust a Genoese again. At the blue he gazes ever, Distance doth his soul enchain. Strangeness is to me too dear-- Genoa has sunk and passed-- Heart, be cool! Hand, firmly steer! Sea before me: land--at last? Firmly let us plant our feet, Ne'er can we give up this game-- From the distance what doth greet? One death, one happiness, one fame. IN LONESOMENESS[9] The cawing crows Townwards on whirring pinions roam; Soon come the snows-- Thrice happy now who hath a home! Fast-rooted there, Thou gazest backwards--oh, how long! Thou fool, why dare Ere winter come, this world of wrong? This world--a gate To myriad deserts dumb and hoar! Who lost through fate What thou hast lost, shall rest no more. Now stand'st thou pale, A frozen pilgrimage thy doom, Like smoke whose trail Cold and still colder skies consume. Fly, bird, and screech, Like desert-fowl, thy song apart! Hide out of reach, Fool! in grim ice thy bleeding heart. Firmly let us plant our feet, Ne'er can we give up this game-- From the distance what doth greet? One death, one happiness, one fame. The cawing crows Townwards on whirring pinions roam: Soon come the snows-- Woe unto him who hath no home! _My Answer_ The man presumes-- Good Lord!--to think that I'd return To those warm rooms Where snug the German ovens burn My friend, you see 'Tis but thy folly drives me far,-- Pity for _thee_ And all that German blockheads are! VENICE