O Nightingale, the poet’s bird,
A kinsman dear thou art,
Who never sings so well as when
The rose-thorns bruise his heart.
But since thy agony can make
A listening world so blest,
Be sure it cares but little for
Thy wounded, bleeding breast!
From “The English Struwwelpeter”
IT almost makes me cry to tell
What foolish Harriet befel.
Mamma and Nurse went out one day
And left her all alone at play;
Now, on the table close at hand,
A box of matches chanced to stand;
And kind Mamma and Nurse had told her,
That, if she touched them, they should scold her.
But Harriet...
And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he ’s weel?
Is this a time to think of wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think of wark,
When Colin ’s at the door?
Gie me my cloak! I ’ll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
For there ’s nae luck about the house,
There ’s nae luck ava;...
An altered look about the hills —
A Tyrian light the village fills —
A wider sunrise in the morn —
A deeper twilight on the lawn —
A print of a vermillion foot —
A purple finger on the slope —
A flippant fly upon the pane —
A spider at his trade again —
An added strut in...
How many times these low feet staggered,
Only the soldered mouth can tell ;
Try ! can you stir the awful rivet ?
Try ! can you lift the hasps of steel ?
Stroke the cool forehead, hot so often,
Lift, if you can, the listless hair...
We talked with each other about each other
Though neither of us spoke —
We were listening to the seconds' Races
And the Hoofs of the Clock —
Pausing in Front of our Palsied Faces
Time compassion took —
Arks of Reprieve he offered to us —
Ararats — we took —
