Good Novel

When the drums begin to beatDown the street,When the poles are fetched and guyed,When the tight-rope's stretched and tied,When the dance-girls make salaam,When the snake-bag wakes alarm,When the pipes set up their drone,When the sharp-edged knives are thrownWhen the red-hot coals are shown,To be swallowed by-and-by,Arre, Brethren, here come I!Stripped to loin-cloth in the sun,Search me well and watch me close!Tell me how my tricks are done,Tell me how the mango grows!Give a man who is not madeTo his tradeSwords to fling and catch again,Coins to ring and snatch again,Men to harm and cure again,Snakes to charm and lure again,He'll be hurt by his own blade,By his serpents disobeyed,By his clumsiness bewrayed,By the people laughed to scorn,So 'tis not with juggler born! Pinch of dust or withered flower,Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,Serve his need and shore

 Vast was the wealth I carried in life's pack -         Youth, health, ambition, hope and trust; but Time         And Fate, those robbers fit for any crime,    Stole all, and left me but the empty sack.    Before me lay a long and lonely track         Of darkling hills and barren steeps to climb;         Behind me lay in shadows the sublime    Lost lands of Love's delight.    Alack!    Alack!    Unwearied, and with springing steps elate,         I had conveyed my wealth along the road.         The empty sack proved now a heavier load:   &n

 He seemed so strange to me, every way -            In manner, and form, and size,        From the boy I knew but yesterday, -            I could hardly believe my eyes!        To hear his name called over there,            My memory thrilled with glee        And leaped to picture him young and fair            In youth, as he used to be.        But looking, only as glad eyes can,            For the boy I knew of yore,   &nb

Some one came knocking        At my wee, small door;    Some one came knocking,        I'm sure - sure - sure;    I listened, I opened,        I looked to left and right,    But naught there was a-stirring        In the still dark night;    Only the busy beetle        Tap-tapping in the wall,    Only from the forest        The screech-owl's call,    Only the cricket whistling        While the dewdrops fall,    So I know not who came knocking,    At all, at all, a

 Climbing the heights of Berkeley        Nightly I watch the West.        There lies new San Francisco,        Sea-maid in purple dressed,        Wearing a dancer's girdle        All to inflame desire:        Scorning her days of sackcloth,        Scorning her cleansing fire.        See, like a burning city        Sets now the red sun's dome.        See, mystic firebrands sparkle        There on each store and home.        See how