Short Poems

Rouse but old Myrtila, the nurse, and give her
The least occasion, and she'll talk for ever:
With far less art and ease you may restrain
The sounding cymbals of Dodona's fane,
(Which, if but touch'd, the holy Augur hears
The live-long day remurmur'd in his ears)
Than still this chattering crone, who with her tales
Torments the weary night as soon as evening fails.

The autumn night is vaporless on the lake.
The swelling tide could bear us on to the sky.
Come, let us take the moonlight for our guide,
We'll sail away and drink where the white clouds are!

A boy stops outside my window,
tells me it is the New Year.
So I look out my eastern window—
the usual sun has risen.
Boy, it's the same old sun,
come tell me in the next world.

Thou say'st my verses are not fine,
I grant it,—only show us thine.

Dry Gap—a dingy general store.
A sign said, “Population Seven.”
I found a universe for two:
One sun, one moon, and called it heaven.

The bard of Rydal Mount spake well—
But Nature for herself speaks, too;
Nor any secret had to tell
To him, that's hid from me and you.
For us she gems the sapphire sky;
For us her mountains cleave the air;
And he that sees with Nature's eye
Sees everything that's good and fair.

The flower of the heart,
Alone by its sweet perfume
In secret distilled,
Embalmeth in fragrance rare
The words of the poet-song.

No, no, not even cherry-bloom
Can equal this night's brilliant moon.

The cuckoo is singing;
Ye gods, be sure to listen.

A winter shower falls on the roof;
The valley is deep and I am deaf.

Whom would your cries, with artful calumny,
Accuse of scatt'ring the pale cherry-flow'rs?
'Tis your own pinions flitting through these bow'rs
That raise the gust which makes them fall and die!

What in France has pass'd by, the Germans continue to practise,
For the proudest of men flatters the people and fawns.