My mind has thunderstorms,
       That brood for heavy hours:
     Until they rain me words,
       My thoughts are drooping flowers
     And sulking, silent birds.

     Yet come, dark thunderstorms,
       And brood your heavy hours;
     For when you rain me words,
       My thoughts are dancing flowers
     And joyful singing birds.

     Sometimes I hear fine ladies sing,
       Sometimes I smoke and drink with men;
     Sometimes I play at games of cards—
       Judge me to be no strong man then.

     The strongest moment of my life
       Is when I think about the poor;
     When, like a spring that rain has fed,
       My pity rises more and more.

     The flower that loves the warmth and light,
       Has all its mornings bathed in dew;
     My heart has moments wet with tears,
       My weakness is they are so few.

     Good morning, Life—and all
     Things glad and beautiful.
     My pockets nothing hold,
     But he that owns the gold,
     The Sun, is my great friend—
     His spending has no end.

     Hail to the morning sky,
     Which bright clouds measure high;
     Hail to you birds whose throats
     Would number leaves by notes;
     Hail to you shady bowers,
     And you green fields of flowers.

     Hail to you women fair,
     That make a show so rare
     In cloth as white as milk—
     Be't calico or silk:
     Good morning, Life—and all
     Things glad and beautiful.

     Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
     Thou knowest of no strange continent:
     Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
     A gentle motion with the deep;
     Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
     Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
     Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow
     For miles, as far as eyes can go;
     Thou hast not seen a summer's night
     When maids could sew by a worm's light;
     Nor the North Sea in spring send out
     Bright hues that like birds flit about
     In solid cages of white ice—
     Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.
     Thou hast not seen black fingers pick
     White cotton when the bloom is thick,
     Nor heard black throats in harmony;
     Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie
     Flat on the earth, that once did rise
     To hide proud kings from common eyes,
     Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom
     Where green things had such little room
     They pleased the eye like fairer flowers—
     Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.
     Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,
     Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;
     For thou hast made more homely stuff
     Nurture thy gentle self enough;
     I love thee for a heart that's kind—
     Not for the knowledge in thy mind.

     My little Lamb, what is amiss?
     If there was milk in mother's kiss,
     You would not look as white as this.

     The wolf of Hunger, it is he
     That takes away thy milk from me,
     And I have much to do for thee.

     If thou couldst live on love, I know
     No babe in all the land could show
     More rosy cheeks and louder crow.

     Thy father's dead, Alas for thee:
     I cannot keep this wolf from me,
     That takes thy milk so bold and free.

     If thy dear father lived, he'd drive
     Away this beast with whom I strive,
     And thou, my pretty Lamb, wouldst thrive.

     Ah, my poor babe, my love's so great
     I'd swallow common rags for meat—
     If they could make milk rich and sweet.

     My little Lamb, what is amiss?
     Come, I must wake thee with a kiss,
     For Death would own a sleep like this.

     The sky is clear,
       The sun is bright;
     The cows are red,
       The sheep are white;
     Trees in the meadows
     Make happy shadows.

     Birds in the hedge
       Are perched and sing;
     Swallows and larks
       Are on the wing:
     Two merry cuckoos
     Are making echoes.

     Bird and the beast
       Have the dew yet;
     My road shines dry,
       Theirs bright and wet:
     Death gives no warning,
     On this May morning.

     I see no Christ
       Nailed on a tree,
     Dying for sin;
       No sin I see:
     No thoughts for sadness,
     All thoughts for gladness.

     He lives his lonely life, and when he dies
     A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs;
     Because they liked his songs, and now their bird
     Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard.

     But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring
     Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing?
     Who'll kiss his mound, and wish the time would come
     To lie with him inside that silent tomb?

     And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and shed
     A tear because a loving heart is dead?
     Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs—
     And let his death bring tears in no one's eyes.

     Christmas has come, let's eat and drink—
     This is no time to sit and think;
     Farewell to study, books and pen,
     And welcome to all kinds of men.
     Let all men now get rid of care,
     And what one has let others share;
     Then 'tis the same, no matter which
     Of us is poor, or which is rich.
     Let each man have enough this day,
     Since those that can are glad to pay;
     There's nothing now too rich or good
     For poor men, not the King's own food.
     Now like a singing bird my feet
     Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
     Welcome to all men: I'll not care
     What any of my fellows wear;
     We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
     They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
     Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
     That hand of yours dislodge a flea,—
     While you sit at my side and beg,
     Or right foot scratching your left leg.
     Farewell restraint: we will not now
     Measure the ale our brains allow,
     But drink as much as we can hold.
     We'll count no change when we spend gold;
     This is no time to save, but spend,
     To give for nothing, not to lend.
     Let foes make friends: let them forget
     The mischief-making dead that fret
     The living with complaint like this—
     "He wronged us once, hate him and his."
     Christmas has come; let every man
     Eat, drink, be merry all he can.
     Ale's my best mark, but if port wine
     Or whisky's yours—let it be mine;
     No matter what lies in the bowls,
     We'll make it rich with our own souls.
     Farewell to study, books and pen,
     And welcome to all kinds of men.

     If I were gusty April now,
       How I would blow at laughing Rose;
     I'd make her ribbons slip their knots,
       And all her hair come loose.

     If I were merry April now,
       How I would pelt her cheeks with showers;
     I'd make carnations, rich and warm,
       Of her vermilion flowers.

     Since she will laugh in April's face,
       No matter how he rains or blows—
     Then O that I wild April were,
       To play with laughing Rose.

     Joy, how I sought thee!
     Silver I spent and gold,
     On the pleasures of this world,
         In splendid garments clad;
     The wine I drank was sweet,
     Rich morsels I did eat—
         Oh, but my life was sad!
     Joy, how I sought thee!

     Joy, I have found thee!
     Far from the halls of Mirth,
     Back to the soft green earth,
         Where people are not many;
     I find thee, Joy, in hours
     With clouds, and birds, and flowers—
         Thou dost not charge one penny.
     Joy, I have found thee!

     I sit beneath your leaves, old oak,
       You mighty one of all the trees;
     Within whose hollow trunk a man
       Could stable his big horse with ease.

     I see your knuckles hard and strong,
       But have no fear they'll come to blows;
     Your life is long, and mine is short,
       But which has known the greater woes?

     Thou has not seen starved women here,
       Or man gone mad because ill-fed—
     Who stares at stones in city streets,
       Mistaking them for hunks of bread.

     Thou hast not felt the shivering backs
       Of homeless children lying down
     And sleeping in the cold, night air—
       Like doors and walls in London town.

     Knowing thou hast not known such shame,
       And only storms have come thy way,
     Methinks I could in comfort spend
       My summer with thee, day by day.

     To lie by day in thy green shade,
       And in thy hollow rest at night;
     And through the open doorway see
       The stars turn over leaves of light.

     God's pity on poor kings,
         They know no gentle rest;
     The North and South cry out,
         Cries come from East and West—
     "Come, open this new Dock,
         Building, Bazaar or Fair."
     Lord, what a wretched life
         Such men must bear.

     They're followed, watched and spied,
         No liberty they know;
     Some eye will watch them still,
         No matter where they go.
     When in green lanes I muse,
         Alone, and hear birds sing,
     God's pity then, say I,
         On some poor king.

     My back is turned on Spring and all her flowers,
       The birds no longer charm from tree to tree;
     The cuckoo had his home in this green world
       Ten days before his voice was heard by me.

     Had I an answer from a dear one's lips,
       My love of life would soon regain its power;
     And suckle my sweet dreams, that tug my heart,
       And whimper to be nourished every hour.

     Give me that answer now, and then my Muse,
       That for my sweet life's sake must never die,
     Will rise like that great wave that leaps and hangs
       The sea-weed on a vessel's mast-top high.

     My youth was my old age,
         Weary and long;
     It had too many cares
         To think of song;
     My moulting days all came
         When I was young.

     Now, in life's prime, my soul
         Comes out in flower;
     Late, as with Robin, comes
         My singing power;
     I was not born to joy
         Till this late hour.

     I saw a black girl once,
       As black as winter's night;
     Till through her parted lips
       There came a flood of light;
     It was the milky way
       Across her face so black:
     Her two lips closed again,
       And night came back.

     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.

     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.

     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.

     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.

     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!

     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 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.

     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!

     Sing—when a Nightingale
       Pours forth her own sweet soul
       To hear dread thunder roll
     Into a tearful tale—
       Heigh ho! The rain!

     Sing—when a Sparrow's seen
       Trying to lie at rest
       By pressing his warm breast
     To leaves so wet and green—
       Heigh ho! The rain!

     Give me the chance, and I will make
       Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day,
     Take wings and change to butterflies
       That in the golden light shall play;
     Thy cold, clear heart—the quiet pool
       That never heard Love's nightingale—
     Shall hear his music night and day,
       And in no seasons shall it fail.

     I'll make thy happy heart my port,
       Where all my thoughts are anchored fast;
     Thy meditations, full of praise,
       The flags of glory on each mast.
     I'll make my Soul thy shepherd soon,
       With all thy thoughts my grateful flock;
     And thou shalt say, each time I go—
       How long, my Love, ere thou'lt come back?

     They hear the bell of midnight toll,
     And shiver in their flesh and soul;
     They lie on hard, cold wood or stone,
     Iron, and ache in every bone;
     They hate the night: they see no eyes
     Of loved ones in the starlit skies.
     They see the cold, dark water near;
     They dare not take long looks for fear
     They'll fall like those poor birds that see
     A snake's eyes staring at their tree.
     Some of them laugh, half-mad; and some
     All through the chilly night are dumb;
     Like poor, weak infants some converse,
     And cough like giants, deep and hoarse.

     When at each door the ruffian winds
       Have laid a dying man to groan,
     And filled the air on winter nights
       With cries of infants left alone;
     And every thing that has a bed
       Will sigh for others that have none:

     On such a night, when bitter cold,
       Young Beauty, full of love thoughts sweet,
     Can redden in her looking-glass;
       With but one gown on, in bare feet,
     She from her own reflected charms
       Can feel the joy of summer's heat.

     I do not know his grace the Duke,
       Outside whose gilded gate there died
     Of want a feeble, poor old man,
       With but his shadow at his side.

     I do not know his Lady fair,
       Who in a bath of milk doth lie;
     More milk than could feed fifty babes,
       That for the want of it must die.

     But well I know the mother poor,
       Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl:
     A puny babe that, stripped at home,
       Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small.

     And well I know the homeless waif,
       Fed by the poorest of the poor;
     Since I have seen that child alone,
       Crying against a bolted door.

     The bird that now
       On bush and tree,
     Near leaves so green
       Looks down to see
     Flowers looking up—
       He either sings
     In ecstasy
       Or claps his wings.

     Why should I slave
       For finer dress
     Or ornaments;
       Will flowers smile less
     For rags than silk?
       Are birds less dumb
     For tramp than squire?
       Sweet birds, I come.

     Now how could I, with gold to spare,
       Who know the harlot's arms, and wine,
     Sit in this green field all alone,
       If Nature was not truly mine?

     That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn,
       From heavy sleep that no rest brings:
     This life of quiet joy wakes fresh,
       And claps its wings at morn, and sings.

     So here sit I, alone till noon,
       In one long dream of quiet bliss;
     I hear the lark and share his joy,
       With no more winedrops than were his.

     Such, Nature, is thy charm and power—
       Since I have made the Muse my wife—
     To keep me from the harlot's arms,
       And save me from a drunkard's life.

     The bird of Fortune sings when free,
     But captured, soon grows dumb; and we,
     To hear his fast declining powers,
     Must soon forget that he is ours.
     So, when I win that maid, no doubt
     Love soon will seem to be half out;
     Like blighted leaves drooped to the ground,
     Whose roots are still untouched and sound,
     So will our love's root still be strong
     When others think the leaves go wrong.
     Though we may quarrel, 'twill not prove
     That she and I are less in love;
     The parrot, though he mocked the dove,
     Died when she died, and proved his love.
     When merry springtime comes, we hear
     How all things into love must stir;
     How birds would rather sing than eat,
     How joyful sheep would rather bleat:
     And daffodils nod heads of gold,
     And dance in April's sparkling cold.
     So in our early love did we
     Dance much and skip, and laugh with glee:
     But let none think our love is flown
     If, when we're married, little's shown:
     E'en though our lips be dumb of song,
     Our hearts can still be singing strong.

     This life is jolly, O!
       I envy no man's lot;
     My eyes can much admire,
       And still my heart crave not;
     There's no true joy in gold,
       It breeds desire for more;
     Whatever wealth man has,
       Desire can keep him poor.

     This life is jolly, O!
       Power has his fawning slaves,
     But if he rests his mind,
       Those wretches turn bold knaves.
     Fame's field is full of flowers,
       It dazzles as we pass,
     But men who walk that field
       Starve for the common grass.

     This life is jolly, O!
       Let others know they die,
     Enough to know I live,
       And make no question why;
     I care not whence I came,
       Nor whither I shall go;
     Let others think of these—
       This life is jolly, O!

     I saw the fog grow thick,
       Which soon made blind my ken;
     It made tall men of boys,
       And giants of tall men.

     It clutched my throat, I coughed;
       Nothing was in my head
     Except two heavy eyes
       Like balls of burning lead.

     And when it grew so black
       That I could know no place,
     I lost all judgment then,
       Of distance and of space.

     The street lamps, and the lights
       Upon the halted cars,
     Could either be on earth
       Or be the heavenly stars.

     A man passed by me close,
       I asked my way, he said,
     "Come, follow me, my friend"—
       I followed where he led.

     He rapped the stones in front,
       "Trust me," he said, "and come";
     I followed like a child—
       A blind man led me home.