THE WANTS OF MAN BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS "Man wants but little here below, My wants are many and, if told, What first I want is daily bread And canvas-backs - and wine And all the realms of nature spread Before me, when I dine. Four courses scarcely can provide My appetite to quell; With four choice cooks from France beside, To dress my dinner well. What next I want, at princely cost, Is elegant attire: Black sable furs for winter's frost, And silks for summer's fire, And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace And diamond rings my hands to grace, I want (who does not want?) a wife, - To solace all the woes of life, And all its joys to share. Of temper sweet, of yielding will, With all my faults to love me still And as Time's car incessant runs, I want a warm and faithful friend, Nor bend the knee to power, A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see; And that my friendship prove as strong For him as his for me. I want the seals of power and place, Charged by the People's unbought grace Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask I want the voice of honest praise And to be thought in future days In choral union to the skies These are the Wants of mortal Man, - For life itself is but a span, And earthly bliss a song. My last great Want - absorbing all Is, when beneath the sod, And summoned to my final call, The Mercy of my God. ROCK ME TO SLEEP BY ELIZABETH ANN AKERS Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;― Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Over my heart, in the days that are flown, Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep! SHE AND HE BY EDWIN ARNOLD "Come away; "She is dead!" they said to him. They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; Over her eyes, which gazed too much, With a tender touch they closed up well |