SWEET BIRDS, I COME


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.




THE TWO LIVES


Now how could I, with gold to spare,
Who know the harlot's arms, and wine,
Sit in this green field all alone,