A Few Figs from Thistles quotes

This edition of "A Few Figs from Thistles" contains several poems not included in earlier editions.

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!

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

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!

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

We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

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

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.

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!"

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.

And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday— So much is true.

And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what Is that to me?

Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose;

How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose?

The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!

Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose?

The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!

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 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?

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?

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.

Joan is paired with a putterer That bastes and tastes and salts, And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,—

But my true love is false!

All right, Go ahead! What's in a name? I guess I'll be locked into As much as I'm locked out of!

All right, Go ahead! What's in a name? I guess I'll be locked into As much as I'm locked out of!

There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore.

I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not traveled more.)

There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not traveled more.)

Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within;

Yet if over hill and hollow Still it is your will to follow,

I am off;—to heel, Apollo!

Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you'll find her A-sunning in the sun!

She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream,

She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream!

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's lace!

She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream, She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream!

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's lace!

Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife, Each day to half its length, my friend,— The years that Time takes off my life, He'll take from off the other end!

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's lace!

Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife, Each day to half its length, my friend,— The years that Time takes off my life, He'll take from off the other end!

Oh, I am grown so free from care Since my heart broke! I set my throat against the air, I laugh at simple folk!

Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife, Each day to half its length, my friend,— The years that Time takes off my life, He'll take from off the other end!

Oh, I am grown so free from care Since my heart broke!

I set my throat against the air, I laugh at simple folk!

And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?

I know a man that's a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?

Love, though for this you riddle me with darts, And drag me at your chariot till I die,— Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!— Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie Who shout you mighty:

I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire, Lifted my face into its puny rain, Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!

(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave, Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)

I think I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung in jest; And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;

But you are mobile as the veering air, And all your charms more changeful than the tide, Wherefore to be inconstant is no care: I have but to continue at your side.

So wanton, light and false, my love, are you, I am most faithless when I most am true.

I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever;

I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,—

Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.

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