Short Poems

Haste is unhappy: What we Rashly do
Is both unluckie; I, and foolish too.
Where War with rashnesse is attempted, there
The Soldiers leave the Field with equall feare.

Who after his transgression doth repent,
Is halfe, or altogether innocent.

‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
‘He's a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack

All day the street has been quiet.
Not a branch sways,
only the leaves of the corner tree twinkle.

Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
How like art thou to joy remember'd well!
So gleams the past, the light of other days,
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays;
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold,
Distinct, but distant—clear—but, oh how cold!

If the Water of Life were to rain
The willows would bear us no plums;
On the worthless bestow not your pain,
From the marsh-mallow no sugar comes.

While I watch the moon go down, a crow caws through the frost;
Under the shadows of maple-trees a fisherman moves with his torch;
And I hear, from beyond Su-chou, from the temple on Cold Mountain,
Ringing for me, here in my boat, the midnight bell.

O who will worship the great god Pan
Out in the woods with me,
Now the chestnut spreadeth its seven-leaved fan
Over the hive of the bee?
Now the cushat cries, and the fallow deer
Creep on the woodland way,
O who will hearken, and try to hear
The voice of the god to-day?

The weakened eyes regain their sight,
——The fevered pulse grows slow and sure,
——Oh night, on thy sweet breast secure,
My head is laid, is laid, oh night!

If only I could creep
into each corner
of the heart of the one
who says she loves me
and keep watch.