Like stars and time eterne He liveth now in heights that life forswore, Nor envy's self doth spurn: A lofty flight were't, e'en to see him soar! Oh albatross, great bird, Speeding me upward ever through the blue! I thought of her, was stirred To tears unending--yea, I love her true! SONG OF A THEOCRITEAN GOATHERD. Here I lie, my bowels sore, Hosts of bugs advancing, Yonder lights and romp and roar! What's that sound? They're dancing! At this instant, so she prated, Stealthily she'd meet me: Like a faithful dog I've waited, Not a sign to greet me! She promised, made the cross-sign, too, Could her vows be hollow? Or runs she after all that woo, Like the goats I follow? Whence your silken gown, my maid? Ah, you'd fain be haughty, Yet perchance you've proved a jade With some satyr naughty! Waiting long, the lovelorn wight Is filled with rage and poison: Even so on sultry night Toadstools grow in foison. Pinching sore, in devil's mood, Love doth plague my crupper: Truly I can eat no food: Farewell, onion-supper! Seaward sinks the moon away, The stars are wan, and flare not: Dawn approaches, gloomy, grey, Let Death come! I care not! "SOULS THAT LACK DETERMINATION." Souls that lack determination Rouse my wrath to white-hot flame! All their glory's but vexation, All their praise but self-contempt and shame! Since I baffle their advances, Will not clutch their leading-string, They would wither me with glances Bitter-sweet, with hopeless envy sting. Let them with fell curses shiver, Curl their lip the livelong day! Seek me as they will, forever Helplessly their eyes shall go astray! THE FOOL'S DILEMMA. Ah, what I wrote on board and wall With foolish heart, in foolish scrawl, I meant but for their decoration! Yet say you, "Fools' abomination! Both board and wall require purgation, And let no trace our eyes appal!" Well, I will help you, as I can, For sponge and broom are my vocation As critic and as waterman. But when the finished work I scan, I'm glad to see each learned owl With "wisdom" board and wall defoul. RIMUS REMEDIUM (_or a Consolation to Sick Poets_). From thy moist lips, O Time, thou witch, beslavering me, Hour upon hour too slowly drips In vain--I cry, in frenzy's fit, "A curse upon that yawning pit, A curse upon Eternity!" The world's of brass, A fiery bullock, deaf to wail: Pain's dagger pierces my cuirass, Wingéd, and writes upon my bone: "Bowels and heart the world hath none, Why scourge her sins with anger's flail?"