Short Poems

A greyhound which the hunters hold in slip,
Doth strive to break the string, or slide the collar,
(That sees the fearful deer before him skip,
Pursued belike with some Actæon's scholar)
And when he sees he can by no means slip,
Doth howl, and whine, and bites the string for choler.

Cool is the autumn wind,
Clear the autumn moon,
The blown leaves heap up and scatter again;
A raven, cold-stricken, starts from his roost.
Where are you, beloved?—When shall I see you once more?
Ah, how my heart aches to-night—this hour!

Our little hour—how soon it dies:
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble Litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds,
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower—
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.

1. Wake the song of jubilee, Let it echo o'er the sea.
Now is come the promised hour; Jesus reigns with sovereign power!
2. All ye nations, join and sing, “Christ, of lords and kings, is King,”
3. Now the desert lands rejoice, And the islands join their voice;
Let it sound from shore to shore, Jesus reigns forevermore!
Joy, the whole creation sings, “Jesus is the King of Kings!”

Death is a tower
To which the soul ascends
To spend a meditative hour—
That never ends.

A wild poppy-flower
Withered and died.

The day-people laughed—
But the night-people cried.

A wild poppy-flower
Withered and died.

Bring me all of your dreams,
You dreamers,
Bring me all of your
Heart melodies
That I may wrap them
In a blue cloud-cloth
Away from the too-rough fingers

We wanted Li Wing
But we winged Willie Wong.
A sad but excusable
Slip of the tong.

Sea-wind and wave should chant thy requiem,
The harmonic surges toll thy passing-bell,
For thou, hushed Poet, wert akin to them;
Thy songs alone their music parallel.

This maiden like a huntsman is;
Her brow is like the bow he bends;
Her sidelong glances are his darts;
My heart's the antelope she slays.