_'Maybe I shall be lucky yet,_ _Now they are silent,' said the crane._ _'Though to my feathers in the wet_ _I've stood as I were made of stone_ _And seen the rubbish run about,_ _It's certain there are trout somewhere_ _And maybe I shall take a trout_ _If but I do not seem to care.'_ THE THREE HERMITS Three old hermits took the air By a cold and desolate sea, First was muttering a prayer, Second rummaged for a flea; On a windy stone, the third, Giddy with his hundredth year, Sang unnoticed like a bird. 'Though the Door of Death is near And what waits behind the door, Three times in a single day I, though upright on the shore, Fall asleep when I should pray.' So the first but now the second, 'We're but given what we have earned When all thoughts and deeds are reckoned, So it's plain to be discerned That the shades of holy men, Who have failed being weak of will, Pass the Door of Birth again, And are plagued by crowds, until They've the passion to escape.' Moaned the other, 'They are thrown Into some most fearful shape.' But the second mocked his moan: 'They are not changed to anything, Having loved God once, but maybe, To a poet or a king Or a witty lovely lady.' While he'd rummaged rags and hair, Caught and cracked his flea, the third, Giddy with his hundredth year Sang unnoticed like a bird. BEGGAR TO BEGGAR CRIED 'Time to put off the world and go somewhere And find my health again in the sea air,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And make my soul before my pate is bare.' 'And get a comfortable wife and house To rid me of the devil in my shoes,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.' 'And though I'd marry with a comely lass, She need not be too comely--let it pass,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.' 'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.' 'And there I'll grow respected at my ease, And hear amid the garden's nightly peace,' Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck, 'The wind-blown clamor of the barnacle-geese.' THE WELL AND THE TREE 'The Man that I praise,' Cries out the empty well, 'Lives all his days Where a hand on the bell Can call the milch-cows To the comfortable door of his house. Who but an idiot would praise Dry stones in a well?' 'The Man that I praise,' Cries out the leafless tree, 'Has married and stays By an old hearth, and he On naught has set store But children and dogs on the floor. Who but an idiot would praise A withered tree?' RUNNING TO PARADISE