Far better to be turned to grass
To feed the poley cow；
Than be the half boiled bream； alas；
That I am really now！
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For cow and pig I would not hear；
And hoof I would not see；
But if these items did appear
They wouldn't trouble me。
For ah！ the pelt of mortal man
Weighs less than half a ton；
And any sight is better than
A sultry southern sun。
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THE VOICE IN THE WILD OAK
（Written in the Shadow of 1872）
TWELVE years ago； when I could face
High heaven's dome with different eyes …
In days full…flowered with hours of grace；
And nights not sad with sighs …
I wrote a song in which I strove
To shadow forth thy strain of woe；
Dark widowed sister of the grove！ …
Twelve wasted years ago。
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But youth was then too young to find
Those high authentic syllables；
Whose voice is like the wintering wind
By sunless mountain fells；
Nor had I sinned and suffered then
To that superlative degree
That I would rather seek； than men；
Wild fellowship with thee！
But he who hears this autumn day
Thy more than deep autumnal rhyme；
Is one whose hair was shot with grey
By Grief instead of Time。
He has no need； like many a bard；
To sing imaginary pain；
Because he bears； and finds it hard；
The punishment of Cain。
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No more he sees the affluence
Which makes the heart of Nature glad；
For he has lost the fine； first sense
Of Beauty that he had。
The old delight God's happy breeze
Was wont to give； to Grief has grown；
And therefore； Niobe of trees；
His song is like thine own！
But I； who am that perished soul；
Have wasted so these powers of mine；
That I can never write that whole；
Pure； perfect speech of thine。
Some lord of words august； supreme；
The grave； grand melody demands；
The dark translation of thy theme
I leave to other hands。
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Yet here； where plovers nightly call
Across dim； melancholy leas …
Where comes by whistling fen and fall
The moan of far…off seas …
A grey； old Fancy often sits
Beneath thy shade with tired wings；
And fills thy strong； strange rhyme by fits
With awful utterings。
Then times there are when all the words
Are like the sentences of one
Shut in by Fate from wind and birds
And light of stars and sun；
No dazzling dryad； but a dark
Dream…haunted spirit doomed to be
Imprisoned； crampt in bands of bark；
For all eternity。
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Yea； like the speech of one aghast
At Immortality in chains；
What time the lordly storm rides past
With flames and arrowy rains：
Some wan Tithonus of the wood；
White with immeasurable years …
An awful ghost in solitude
With moaning moors and meres。
And when high thunder smites the hill
And hunts the wild dog to his den；
Thy cries； like maledictions； shrill
And shriek from glen to glen；
As if a frightful memory whipped
Thy soul for some infernal crime
That left it blasted； blind； and stript …
A dread to Death and Time！
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But when the fair…haired August dies；
And flowers wax strong and beautiful；
Thy songs are stately harmonies
By wood…lights green and cool …
Most like the voice of one who shows
Through sufferings fierce； in fine relief；
A noble patience and repose …
A dignity in grief。
But； ah！ conceptions fade away；
And still the life that lives in thee …
The soul of thy majestic lay …
Remains a mystery！
And he must speak the speech divine …
The language of the high…throned lords …
Who'd give that grand old theme of thine
Its sense in faultless words。
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By hollow lands and sea…tracts harsh；
With ruin of the fourfold gale；
Where sighs the sedge and sobs the marsh；
Still wail thy lonely wail；
And； year by year； one step will break
The sleep of far hill…folded streams；
And seek； if only for thy sake
Thy home of many dreams。
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BILLY VICKERS
NO song is this of leaf and bird；
And gracious waters flowing；
I'm sick at heart； for I have heard
Big Billy Vickers ‘‘blowing''。
He'd never take a leading place
In chambers legislative：
This booby with the vacant face …
This hoddy…doddy native！
Indeed； I'm forced to say aside；
To you； O reader； solely；
He only wants the horns and hide
To be a bullock wholly。
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But； like all noodles； he is vain；
And when his tongue is wagging；
I feel inclined to copy Cain；
And ‘‘drop'' him for his bragging。
He； being Bush…bred； stands； of course；
Six feet his dirty socks in；
His lingo is confined to horse
And plough； and pig and oxen。
Two years ago he'd less to say
Within his little circuit；
But now he has； besides a dray；
A team of twelve to work it。
No wonder is it that he feels
Inclined to clack and rattle
About his bullocks and his wheels …
He owns a dozen cattle。
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In short； to be exact and blunt；
In his own estimation
He's ‘‘out and out'' the head and front
Top…sawyer of creation！
For； mark me； he can ‘‘sit a buck''
For hours and hours together；
And never horse has had the luck
To pitch him from the leather。
If ever he should have a ‘‘spill''
Upon the grass or gravel；
Be sure of this； the saddle will
With Billy Vickers travel。
At punching oxen you may guess
There's nothing out can ‘‘camp'' him：
He has； in fact； the slouch and dress
Which bullock…driver stamp him。
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I do not mean to give offence；
But I have vainly striven
To ferret out the difference
'Twixt driver and the driven。
Of course； the statements herein made
In every other stanza
Are Billy's own； and I'm afraid
They're stark extravaganza。
I feel constrained to treat as trash
His noisy fiddle…faddle
About his doings with the lash；
His feats upon the saddle。
But grant he ‘‘knows his way about''；
Or grant that he is silly；
There cannot be the slightest doubt
Of Billy's faith in Billy。
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Of all the doings of the day
His ignorance is utter；
But he can quote the price of hay；
The current rate of butter。
His notions of our leading men
Are mixed and misty very：
He knows a Cochin…China hen …
He never speaks of Berry。
As you'll assume； he hasn't heard
Of Madame Patti's singing；
But I will stake my solemn word
He knows what maize is bringing。
Surrounded by majestic peaks；
By lordly mountain ranges；
Where highest voice of thunder speaks
His aspect never changes。
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The grand Pacific there beyond
His dirty hut is glowing：
He only sees a big salt pond；
O'er which his grain is going。
The sea that covers half the sphere；
With all its stately speeches；
Is held by Bill to be a mere
Broad highway for his peaches。
Through Nature's splendid temples he
Plods； under mountains hoary；
But he has not the eyes to see
Their grandeur and their glory。
A bullock in a biped's boot；
I iterate； is Billy！
He crushes with a careless foot
The touching water…lily。
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I've said enough … I'll let him go！
If he could read these verses；
He'd pepper me for hours； I know；
With his peculiar curses。
But this is sure； he'll never change
His manners loud and flashy；
Nor learn with neatness to arrange
His clothing； cheap and trashy。
Like other louts； he'll jog along；
And swig at shanty liquors；
And chew and spit。 Here ends the song
Of Mr。 Billy Vickers。
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PERSIA
I AM writing this song at the close
Of a beautiful day of the spring
In a dell where the daffodil grows
By a grove of the glimmering wing；
From glades where a musical word
Comes ever from luminous fall；
I send you the song of a bird
That I wish to be dear to you all。
I have given my darling the name
Of a land at the gates of the day