Short Poems

To each meadow where
the warbler cries
I come and see
the wind blow
fading flowers.

In dungeons dark I cannot sing,
In sorrow's thrall 'tis hard to smile:
What bird can soar with broken wing?
What heart can bleed and joy the while?

The Singer sang through all his years,
But thrifty Honour saved his tears,
And for his piteous toil,
Blessed him with weeping, as with Holy Oil.

Oh! to drink deep and repose
On the stone over which the pinks bloom!

Let those who will sound notes of dull despair,
And fill with lamentation all the air—
For me, let it be mine alway to send
The cheery note of Love, unto this end:
That they who on some path of darkness grope
May find their way to Light through gleams of Hope.

'Tis bad enough in man or woman
To steal a goose from off a common;
But surely he's without excuse
Who steals the common from the goose.

Light hearted, careless, shall I take my way,
When I to thee this being have resigned,
Well knowing where upon a future day,
With usurer's craft, more than myself to find.

In every state the Good protection claim,
For the best passport is an honest name.

Upon the walls the graceful Ivy climbs
And wraps with green the ancient ruin gray:
Romance it is, and these her leafy rhymes
Writ on the granite page of yesterday.

Who is the maiden
Who is gathering flowers
And is not love-laden?
But she now would gather
A rose, the fair maiden,
And he of the garden
Besought for the favour,
If she is not love-laden.