A Few Figs from Thistles

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;     It will not last the night;   But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—     It gives a lovely light!

Second Fig

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:   Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Recuerdo

We were very tired, we were very merry—   We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—   But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,   We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;   And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry—   We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;   And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;   And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,   And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry,   We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,   And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;   And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,   And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,     (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)   I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;     ("Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by!")

The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,     (Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)   And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat;     (Lord God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)

The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a fair,     (Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)   She had haggled from the fruit-man of his rotting ware;     (I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!)

He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,     (Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?) But he caught the quaint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;     (What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry?)

He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,     (I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!) And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;     (Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)

The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge

What should I be but a prophet and a liar,   Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?   Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,   What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter?

And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,   That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?   And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,   But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?

You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,   As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,   You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb   As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web,

But there comes to birth no common spawn   From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,   And you never have seen and you never will see   Such things as the things that swaddled me!

After all's said and after all's done,   What should I be but a harlot and a nun?

In through the bushes, on any foggy day,   My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,   With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,   A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.

And there'd sit my Ma, with her knees beneath her chin,   A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,   And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying   That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!

He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,   He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,   He blessed

Oh, Prue she has a patient man,     And Joan a gentle lover,   And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,—     But my true love's a rover!

Mig, her man's as good as cheese     And honest as a briar,   Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,—     But my dear lad's a liar!

Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha     Are thick with Mig and Joan!   They bite their threads and shake their heads     And gnaw my name like a bone;

And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,     As never snaps me up,"   And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,     Could live content in a cup;"

Sue's man's mind is like good jell—     All one colour, and clear—   And Mig's no call to think at all     What's to come next year,

While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,     That's troubled with that and this;—   But they all would give the life they live     For a look from the man I kiss!

Cold he slants his eyes about,     And few enough's his choice,—   Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,     Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—

And Agatha will turn awake     While her good man sleeps sound,   And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue     Will hear the clock strike round,

I had a little Sorrow,     Born of a little Sin,   I found a room all damp with gloom     And shut us all within;   And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,     "And, Little Sin, pray God to die,   And I upon the floor will lie     And think how bad I've been!"

Alas for pious planning—     It mattered not a whit!   As far as gloom went in that room,     The lamp might have been lit! My little Sorrow would not weep,     My little Sin would go to sleep—   To save my soul I could not keep     My graceless mind on it!

So up I got in anger,     And took a book I had,   And put a ribbon on my hair     To please a passing lad,   And, "One thing there's no getting by—   I've been a wicked girl," said I;   "But if I can't be sorry, why,     I might as well be glad!"

Daphne

Why do you follow me?—   Any moment I can be   Nothing but a laurel-tree.