When the Frost is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916)

When`the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and the gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’; of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O it’s then the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s somethin kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here —
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock —
When the frost is on the punkin and fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries — kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! —
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don’t know how to tell it — but if sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me —
I’d want to ’commodate ’em — all the whole-indurin’ flock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

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Épitaphe
by Paul Scarron (1610-1660)

Celui qui ci maintenant dort
Fit plus de pitié que d’envie,
Et souffrit mille fois la mort
Avant que de perdre la vie.
Passant, ne fais ici de bruit
Garde bien que tu ne l’éveilles :
Car voici la première nuit
Que le pauvre Scarron sommeille.

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To My Dear and Loving Husband
by Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompence.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.

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Barbara Frietchie
by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892)

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,

The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.

Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree fruited deep,

Fair as the garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,

On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain-wall,

Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,

Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down.

In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.

“Halt!”—the dust-brown ranks stood fast
“Fire!”—out blazed the rifle-blast.

It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf.

She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;

The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.

All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:

All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.

Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;

And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the rebel rides on his raids no more.

Honour to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave,
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!

Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;

And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!

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The Spell of the Yukon
by Robert Service (1874-1958)

I wanted the gold, and I sought it;
         I scrabbled and mucked like a slave.
Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it;
         I hurled my youth into a grave.
I wanted the gold, and I got it—
         Came out with a fortune last fall,—
Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it,
         And somehow the gold isn’t all.

No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?)
         It’s the cussedest land that I know,
From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it
         To the deep, deathlike valleys below.
Some say God was tired when He made it;
         Some say it’s a fine land to shun;
Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it
         For no land on earth—and I’m one.

You come to get rich (damned good reason);
         You feel like an exile at first;
You hate it like hell for a season,
         And then you are worse than the worst.
It grips you like some kinds of sinning;
         It twists you from foe to a friend;
It seems it’s been since the beginning;
         It seems it will be to the end.

I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow
         That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim;
I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow
         In crimson and gold, and grow dim,
Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming,
         And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop;
And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming,
         With the peace o’ the world piled on top.

The summer—no sweeter was ever;
         The sunshiny woods all athrill;
The grayling aleap in the river,
         The bighorn asleep on the hill.
The strong life that never knows harness;
         The wilds where the caribou call;
The freshness, the freedom, the farness—
         O God! how I’m stuck on it all.

The winter! the brightness that blinds you,
         The white land locked tight as a drum,
The cold fear that follows and finds you,
         The silence that bludgeons you dumb.
The snows that are older than history,
         The woods where the weird shadows slant;
The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery,
         I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.

There’s a land where the mountains are nameless,
         And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
         And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
         There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons,
         And I want to go back—and I will.

They’re making my money diminish;
         I’m sick of the taste of champagne.
Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish
         I’ll pike to the Yukon again.
I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight;
         It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before;
And it’s better than this by a damsite—
         So me for the Yukon once more.

There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting;
         It’s luring me on as of old;
Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting
         So much as just finding the gold.
It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder,
         It’s the forests where silence has lease;
It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder,
         It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.

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