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In the cards and at the bend in the road we never saw you in the womb and in the crossfire in the numbers whatever you had your hand in which was everything we were told never to put our faith in you to bow to you humbly after all because in the end there was nothing else we could do but not to believe in you still we might coax you with pebbles kept warm in the hand or coins or the relics of vanished animals observances rituals not binding upon you who make no promises we might do such things only not to neglect you and risk your disfavor oh you who are never the same who are secret as the day when it comes you whom we explain as often as we can without understanding

Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are Life of the Muses' day, their morning star! If works, not th' author's, their own grace should look, Whose poems would not wish to be your book? But these, desir'd by you, the maker's ends Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare friends. Yet satires, since the most of mankind be Their unavoided subject, fewest see; For none e'er took that pleasure in sin's sense But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence. They, then, that living where the matter is bred, Dare for these poems, yet, both ask and read And like them too, must needfully, though few, Be of the best; and 'mongst those best are you, Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are The Muses' evening, as their morning star.

(On some Verses he writ, and asking more for his Heart than ‘twas worth.) I Take back that Heart, you with such Caution give, Take the fond valu’d Trifle back; I hate Love-Merchants that a Trade wou’d drive And meanly cunning Bargains make. II I care not how the busy Market goes, And scorn to Chaffer for a price: Love does one Staple Rate on all impose, Nor leaves it to the Trader’s Choice. III A Heart requires a Heart Unfeign’d and True, Though Subt’ly you advance the Price, And ask a Rate that Simple Love ne’er knew: And the free Trade Monopolize. IV An humble Slave the Buyer must become, She must not bate a Look or Glance You will have all or you’ll have none; See how Love’s Market you inhance. V Is’t not enough, I gave you Heart for Heart, But I must add my Lips and Eies; I must no friendly Smile or Kiss impart; But you must Dun me with Advice. VI And every Hour still more unjust you grow, Those Freedoms you my life deny, You to Adraste are oblig’d to show, And giver her all my Rifled Joy. VII Without Controul she gazes on that Face, And all the happy Envyed Night, In the pleas’d Circle of your fond imbrace: She takes away the Lovers Right. VIII From me she Ravishes those silent hours, That are by Sacred Love my due; Whilst I in vain accuse the angry Powers, That make me hopeless Love pursue. IX Adrastes Ears with that dear Voice are blest, That Charms my Soul at every Sound, And with those Love-Inchanting Touches prest: Which I ne’er felt without a Wound. X She has thee all: whilst I with silent Greif, The Fragments of they Softness feel, Yet dare not blame the happy licenc’d Thief: That does my Dear-bought Pleasures steal. XI Whilst like a Glimering Taper still I burn, And waste my self in my own flame, Adraste takes the welcome rich Return: And leaves me all the hopeless Pain. XII Be just, my lovely Swain, and do not take Freedoms you’ll not to me allow; Or give Amynta so much Freedom back: That she may Rove as well as you. XIII Let us then love upon the honest Square, Since Interest neither have design’d, For the sly Gamester, who ne’er plays me fair, Must Trick for Trick expect to find.

Every morning, my grandmother cleaned the Fischer stove in the back of the trailer, lifted ash in a shovel, careful not to spill the white-gray dust.Precious, she said, her breath smoking in the cold.Precious in winter's first lavender not-quite-light—and you could smell it, the faintest acrid hint of ash, a crispness calling you from bed. You could watch her cap it in a chicory coffee can to stack among others, back bent from a long-gone fever.For the garden in spring, she said.

Margaret, in happy hour Christen'd from that humble flower Which we a daisy call! May thy pretty name-sake be In all things a type of thee, And image thee in all. Like it you show a modest face, An unpretending native grace;— The tulip, and the pink, The china and the damask rose, And every flaunting flower that blows, In the comparing shrink. Of lowly fields you think no scorn; Yet gayest gardens would adorn, And grace, wherever set. Home-seated in your lonely bower, Or wedded—a transplanted flower— I bless you, Margaret!

Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour— Oh! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent! Now round us spreads the watery plain— Oh might our marges meet again! Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renders vain their deep desire?— A God, a God their severance ruled! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

The tale which I send, will, I’m sure, hit your fancy, Of Sandy the Captain, and kitchen-maid Nancy; The youth, by friend Colin’s good liquor made gay, Met the damsel, and brimful of frolic and play, He romped with, and kissed her, and tho’ he’d his gun, In vain the poor lassie attempted to run; She pouted and scolded, and liked not the joke, And at least, in the struggle, his finger she broke. Ah! who, my dear brother, would ever believe, That a swain with a look so demure could deceive? We ladies, kind creatures, devoid of suspicion, Were each very ready to play the physician; By Mackay, his sore finger in spirits was laid, And a bag, by my orders, was carefully made. For it neither by one, nor the other was thought That with Nancy, instead of a gate he had fought. But now the poor maiden has told us the truth, As we cannot ourselves have a laugh at the youth; We entreat that from us, you the hero would tell, In his frolicks he ne’er should forget to bribe well; For had but his kisses been seasoned with gold, How he got his lame finger — had never been told.

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as a falcon Or hawk of the tower: With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning In every thing, Far, far passing That I can indite, Or suffice to write Of Merry Margaret As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower. As patient and still And as full of good will As fair Isaphill, Coriander, Sweet pomander, Good Cassander, Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought, Far may be sought Ere that ye can find So courteous, so kind As Merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower.

Nature, which is the vast creation’s soul, That steady curious agent in the whole, The art of Heaven, the order of this frame, Is only number in another name. For as some king conqu’ring what was his own, Hath choice of several titles to his crown; So harmony on this score now, that then, Yet still is all that takes and governs men. Beauty is but composure, and we find Content is but the concord of the mind, Friendship the unison of well-turned hearts, Honor the chorus of the noblest parts, And all the world on which we can reflect Music to th’ear, or to the intellect. If then each man a little world must be, How many worlds are copied out in thee, Who art so richly formed, so complete T’epitomize all that is good and great; Whose stars this brave advantage did impart, Thy nature’s as harmonious as thy art? Thou dost above the poets’ praises live, Who fetch from thee th’eternity they give. And as true reason triumphs over sense, Yet is subjected to intelligence: So poets on the lower world look down, But Lawes on them; his height is all his own. For, like Divinity it self, his lyre Rewards the wit it did at first inspire. And thus by double right poets allow His and their laurel should adorn his brow. Live then, great soul of nature, to assuage The savage dulness of this sullen age. Charm us to sense; for though experience fail And reason too, thy numbers may prevail. Then, like those ancients, strike, and so command All nature to obey thy gen’rous hand. None will resist but such who needs will be More stupid than a stone, a fish, a tree. Be it thy care our age to new-create: What built a world may sure repair a state.

What crowding thoughts around me wake, What marvels in a Christmas-cake! Ah say, what strange enchantment dwells Enclosed within its odorous cells? Is there no small magician bound Encrusted in its snowy round? For magic surely lurks in this, A cake that tells of vanished bliss; A cake that conjures up to view The early scenes, when life was new; When memory knew no sorrows past, And hope believed in joys that last! — Mysterious cake, whose folds contain Life’s calendar of bliss and pain; That speaks of friends for ever fled, And wakes the tears I love to shed. Oft shall I breathe her cherished name From whose fair hand the offering came: For she recalls the artless smile Of nymphs that deck my native isle; Of beauty that we love to trace, Allied with tender, modest grace; Of those who, while abroad they roam, Retain each charm that gladdens home, And whose dear friendships can impart A Christmas banquet for the heart!