Foliage: Various Poems | Page 2

see:?No thoughts for sadness,?All thoughts for gladness.
THE LONELY DREAMER
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
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.
LAUGHING ROSE
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.
SEEKING JOY
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!
THE OLD OAK TREE
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.
POOR KINGS
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.
LOVE AND THE MUSE
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
My youth was my old age,
Weary and long;?It had too many cares
To think of song;?My