Foliage: Various Poems Part 2

I see a maiden now, Fair as a summer's day; Yet through her parted lips I see the milky way; It makes the broad daylight In summer time look black: Her two lips close again, And night comes back.

MAD POLL

There goes mad Poll, dressed in wild flowers, Poor, crazy Poll, now old and wan; Her hair all down, like any child: She swings her two arms like a man.

Poor, crazy Poll is never sad, She never misses one that dies; When neighbours show their new-born babes, They seem familiar to her eyes.

Her bonnet's always in her hand, Or on the ground, and lying near; She thinks it is a thing for play, Or pretty show, and not to wear.

She gives the sick no sympathy, She never soothes a child that cries; She never whimpers, night or day, She makes no moans, she makes no sighs.

She talks about some battle old, Fought many a day from yesterday; And when that war is done, her love-- "Ha, ha!" Poll laughs, and skips away.

JOY SUPREME

The birds are pirates of her notes, The blossoms steal her face's light; The stars in ambush lie all day, To take her glances for the night.

Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves; Young robin has no notes as sweet In autumn, when the air is still, And all the other birds are mute.

When I set eyes on ripe, red plums That seem a sin and shame to bite, Such are her lips, which I would kiss, And still would keep before my sight.

When I behold proud gossamer Make silent billows in the air, Then think I of her head's fine stuff, Finer than gossamer's, I swear.

The miser has his joy, with gold Beneath his pillow in the night; My head shall lie on soft warm hair, And miser's know not that delight.

Captains that own their ships can boast Their joy to feel the rolling brine-- But I shall lie near her, and feel Her soft warm bosom swell on mine.

FRANCIS THOMPSON

Thou hadst no home, and thou couldst see In every street the windows' light: Dragging thy limbs about all night, No window kept a light for thee.

However much thou wert distressed, Or tired of moving, and felt sick, Thy life was on the open deck-- Thou hadst no cabin for thy rest.

Thy barque was helpless 'neath the sky, No pilot thought thee worth his pains To guide for love or money gains-- Like phantom ships the rich sailed by.

Thy shadow mocked thee night and day, Thy life's companion, it alone; It did not sigh, it did not moan, But mocked thy moves in every way.

In spite of all, the mind had force, And, like a stream whose surface flows The wrong way when a strong wind blows, It underneath maintained its course.

Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower Too late for good, as some bruised tree That blooms in Autumn, and we see Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour.

Some poets _feign_ their wounds and scars.

If they had known real suffering hours, They'd show, in place of Fancy's flowers, More of Imagination's stars.

So, if thy fruits of Poesy Are rich, it is at this dear cost-- That they were nipt by Sorrow's frost, In nights of homeless misery.

THE BIRD-MAN

Man is a bird: He rises on fine wings Into the Heaven's clear light; He flies away and sings-- There's music in his flight.

Man is a bird: In swiftest speed he burns, With twist and dive and leap; A bird whose sudden turns Can drive the frightened sheep.

Man is a bird: Over the mountain high, Whose head is in the skies, Cut from its shoulder by A cloud--the bird-man flies.

Man is a bird: Eagles from mountain crag Swooped down to prove his worth; But _now_ they _rise_ to drag Him down from Heaven to earth!

WINTER'S BEAUTY

Is it not fine to walk in spring, When leaves are born, and hear birds sing?

And when they lose their singing powers, In summer, watch the bees at flowers?

Is it not fine, when summer's past, To have the leaves, no longer fast, Biting my heel where'er I go, Or dancing lightly on my toe?

Now winter's here and rivers freeze; As I walk out I see the trees, Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep, All standing in the snow so deep: And every twig, however small, Is blossomed white and beautiful.

Then welcome, winter, with thy power To make this tree a big white flower; To make this tree a lovely sight, With fifty brown arms draped in white, While thousands of small fingers show In soft white gloves of purest snow.

THE CHURCH ORGAN

The homeless man has heard thy voice, Its sound doth move his memory deep; He stares bewildered, as a man That's shook by earthquake in his sleep.

Thy solemn voice doth bring to mind The days that are forever gone: Thou bringest to mind our early days, Ere we made second homes or none.

HEIGH HO, THE RAIN

The Lark that in heaven dim Can match a rainy hour With his own music's shower, Can make me sing like him-- Heigh ho! The rain!