It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope,
it was the winter of despair,

—

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

—

Teach me half the gladness 
  That thy brain must know, 
 Such harmonious madness 
  From my lips would flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now! 

What objects are the fountains 
  Of thy happy strain? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
  What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

Chorus hymeneal 
  Or triumphal chaunt, 
 Matched with thine, would be all 
  But an empty vaunt— 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

Teach us, sprite or bird, 
  What sweet thoughts are thine: 
 I have never heard 
  Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Like a poet hidden 
  In the light of thought; 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
  Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

What thou art we know not; 
  What is most like thee? 
 From rainbow-clouds there flow not 
  Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:—

All the earth and air 
  With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare, 
  From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

The pale purple even 
  Melts around thy flight; 
 Like a star of heaven, 
  In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

In the golden lightning 
  Of the sunken sun, 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
  Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

Higher still and higher 
  From the earth thou springest, 
 Like a cloud of fire; 
  The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar and soaring ever singest.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit— 
   Bird thou never wert— 
 That from heaven or near it 
   Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

—

The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird’s fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.

A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.