Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
   The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
   And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
   When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
   Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry.

This Chanticleer stood high upon his toes,
Stretching his neck, and both his eyes did close,
And so did crow right loudly, for the nonce;
And Russel Fox, he started up at once,
And by the gorget grabbed our Chanticleer,
Flung him on back, and toward the wood did steer,
For there was no man who as yet pursued.
O destiny, you cannot be eschewed!
Alas, that Chanticleer flew from the beams!
Alas, his wife recked nothing of his dreams!
     This simple widow and her daughters two
Heard these hens cry and make so great ado,
And out of doors they started on the run
And saw the fox into the grove just gone,
Bearing in his mouth the cock away.
And then they cried, “Alas, and weladay!
Oh, the fox!” and after him they ran,
And after them, with staves, went many a man;
Ran Coll, our dog, and Talbot and Garland,
Ran cow and calf and even the very hogs,
So were they scared by barking of the dogs
And shouting men and women all did make,
They all ran so they thought their hearts would break.
And now, good men, I pray you hearken all.
     Behold how Fortune turns all suddenly
The hope and pride of even her enemy!
This cock, which now lay in the fox’s mouth,
In all his fear unto the fox did clack
And say: “Sir, were I you, as I should be,
Then would I say (as God may now help me!),
‘Turn back again, presumptuous peasants all!
A very pestilence upon you fall!
Now that I've gained here to this dark wood’s side,
In spite of you this cock shall here abide.
I’ll eat him, by my faith, and that anon!’”
The fox replied: “In faith, it shall be done!”
And as he spoke that word, all suddenly
This cock broke from his mouth, full cleverly,
And high upon a tree he flew anon.
And when the fox saw well that he was gone,
“Alas,” quoth he, “O Chanticleer, alas!
I have against you done a base trespass
Inasmuch as I made you afeared
When I seized you and brought you from the yard;
But, sir, I did it with no foul intent;
Come down, and I will tell you what I meant.
I’ll tell the truth to you, God help me so!
“Nay then,” said he, “beshrew us both, you know,
But first, beshrew myself, both blood and bones,
If you beguile me, having done so once,
You shall no more, with any flattery,
Cause me to sing and closeup either eye;
For he who shuts his eyes when he should see,
And wilfully, God let him ne’er be free!”
“Nay,” said the fox, “but God give him mischance
Who is so indiscreet in governance
He chatters when he ought to hold his peace.”
     But you that hold this tale a foolery,
As but about a fox, a cock, a hen,
Yet do not miss the moral, my good men.
For Saint Paul says that all that's written well
Is written down some useful truth to tell.
Then take the wheat and let the chaff lie still.
     And now, good God, and if it be Thy will,
As says Lord Christ, so make us all good men
And bring us into His high bliss. Amen.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

To everything, there is a season of parrots. Instead of feathers, we searched the sky for meteors on our last night. Salamanders use the stars to find their way home. Who knew they could see that far, fix the tiny beads of their eyes on distant arrangements of lights so as to return to wet and wild nests? Our heads tilt up and up and we are careful to never look at each other. You were born on a day of peaches splitting from so much rain and the slick smell of fresh tar and asphalt pushed over a cracked parking lot. You were strong enough—even as a baby—to clutch a fistful of thistle and the sun himself was proud to light up your teeth when they first swelled and pushed up from your gums. And this is how I will always remember you when we are covered up again: by the pale mica flecks on your shoulders. Some thrown there from your own smile. Some from my own teeth. There are not enough jam jars to can this summer sky at night. I want to spread those little meteors on a hunk of still-warm bread this winter. Any trace left on the knife will make a kitchen sink like that evening air

the cool night before
star showers: so sticky so
warm so full of light
 

There were the black pine trees, 
        And the sullen hills 
        Frowning; there were trills 
        Of birds, and the sweet hot sun, 
        And little rills 
        Of water, everyone 
Singing and prattling; there were bees

Honey-laden, tuneful, a song
        Far-off, and a timid air 
        That sighed and kissed my hair, 
        My hair that the hot sun loves. 
        The day was very fair, 
        There was wooing of doves, 
And the shadows were not yet long. 

And I lay on the soft green grass, 
        And the smell of the earth was sweet,
        And I dipped my feet 
        In the little stream;
        And was cool as a flower is cool in the heat, 
        And the day lay still in a dream, 
And the hours forgot to pass. 

And you came, my love, so stealthily 
        That I saw you not 
        Till I felt that your arms were hot 
        Round my neck, and my lips were wet
        With your lips, I had forgot  
        How sweet you were. And lo! the sun has set, 
And the pale moon came up silently. 


                                                    ^{Thuringewald, 1892}