Short Poems

Perhaps thy lot in life is higher
Than the fates assign to me
While they fulfil thy large desire
And bid my hopes as visions flee
But grant me still in joy or sorrow
In grief or hope to claim thy heart
And I will then defy the morrow
Whilst I fulfil a loyal part.

The old mans beard is full of flower
Like feather down or hair
& many a self made little bower
Shines beautifully there
Where neglect idle bids it climb
& wild heath hedge adorn
It looks like patches hung with rhyme
Upon a frosty morn

Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me
Behold that circummortal purity;
Between whose glories, there my lips I'll lay,
Ravished in that fair Via Lactea.

If ye fear to be affrighted
When ye are (by chance) benighted,
In your pocket for a trust
Carry nothing but a crust:
For that holy piece of bread
Charms the danger, and the dread.

Craw cracks in sirrop; and do's stinking say,
Who can hold that (my friends) that will away?

Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long day,
Lonely and wearily life wears away.
Weeping for thee, my love, thro' the long night—
No rest in darkness, no joy in light!
Naught left but Memory whose dreary tread
Sounds thro' this ruined heart, where all lies dead—
Wakening the echoes of joy long fled!

The dead man lies in the street.
They spread a sack over his bleeding head.
It drizzles. Gutter and walks are black.

His wife now at her window,
the supper done, the table set,
waits for his coming out of the wet.

How difficult it is for men
Not to forget the past!
I fear my husband's love for me
Is disappearing fast;
This day must be my last.

Take to thy lap, dear earth, the good old boy,
Who did thy tasks with such a loving joy;
Training thee now an olive, heaping thee
With rustling beauteous bread, and viny glee;
And guiding to thy roots his furrowy showers,
Making thee now all fruit, and now all flowers.
Wherefore lie lightly on his temples grey,
And let the turf that wraps him, flower in May.

Ah! the morning-glories are at their best
While I am chanting my morning prayers.