THE CAPTURE

  Duck come switchin’ ’cross de lot
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady! 
  Hurry up an’ hide de pot
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady! 
  Duck’s a mighty ’spicious fowl,
  Slick as snake an’ wise as owl;
  Hol’ dat dog, don’t let him yowl! 
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

  Th’ow dat co’n out kind o’ slow
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady! 
  Keep yo’se’f behin’ de do’
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady! 
  Lots o’ food’ll kill his feah,
  Co’n is cheap but fowls is deah—­
  “Come, good ducky, come on heah.” 
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

  Ain’t he fat and ain’t he fine,
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady! 
  Des can’t wait to make him mine. 
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady! 
  See him waddle when he walk,
  ’Sh! keep still and don’t you talk! 
  Got you!  Don’t you daih to squawk! 
      Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

WHEN WINTER DARKENING ALL AROUND

  When winter covering all the ground
    Hides every sign of Spring, sir. 
  However you may look around,
    Pray what will then you sing, sir?

  The Spring was here last year I know,
    And many bards did flute, sir;
  I shall not fear a little snow
    Forbid me from my lute, sir.

  If words grow dull and rhymes grow rare,
    I’ll sing of Spring’s farewell, sir. 
  For every season steals an air,
    Which has a Springtime smell, sir.

  But if upon the other side,
    With passionate longing burning,
  Will seek the half unjeweled tide,
    And sing of Spring’s returning.

FROM THE PORCH AT RUNNYMEDE

  I stand above the city’s rush and din,
    And gaze far down with calm and undimmed eyes,
  To where the misty smoke wreath grey and dim
    Above the myriad roofs and spires rise;

  Still is my heart and vacant is my breath—­
    This lovely view is breath and life to me,
  Why I could charm the icy soul of death
    With such a sight as this I stand and see.

  I hear no sound of labor’s din or stir,
    I feel no weight of worldly cares or fears,
  Sweet song of birds, of wings the soothing whirr,
    These sounds alone assail my listening ears.

  Unwhipt of conscience here I stand alone,
    The breezes humbly kiss my garment’s hem;
  I am a king—­the whole world is my throne,
    The blue grey sky my royal diadem.

EQUIPMENT

  With what thou gavest me, O Master,
    I have wrought. 
  Such chances, such abilities,
    To see the end was not for my poor eyes,
  Thine was the impulse, thine the forming thought.

  Ah, I have wrought,
    And these sad hands have right to tell their story,
  It was no hard up striving after glory,
    Catching and losing, gaining and failing,
  Raging me back at the world’s raucous railing. 
    Simply and humbly from stone and from wood,
  Wrought I the things that to thee might seem good.