Short Poems

Still in the fickle world,
I find myself lingering on.

Every single morning
blooms appear on morning glories,
day adding to day.

Sweet is lovers' wanton play
If it costs no money.
Paying takes the zest away—
Gall instead of honey.

An Angel, be ye ne'er in doubt,
Though lean below, above is stout;
And let her wax all eyes t' appal,
It proves her more angelical.

Picture some Isle smiling green 'mid the white-foaming ocean;—
Full of old woods, leafy wisdoms, and frolicsome fays;
Passions and pageants; sweet love singing bird-like above it;
Life in all shapes, aims, and fates, is there warm'd by one great human heart.

What else do I pray for but her smile?
Tending her for three years I've remained worried.
One gain, though: mornings working in the kitchen,
I've learned to cook river fish and garden plants.

‘Come cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer!’
As the soldier remarked whose post lay in the rear.

Ye old-time stave that pealeth out
To Christmas revelers all,
At tavern-tap and wassail bout,
And in ye banquet hall,—
Whiles ye old burden rings again,
Add yet ye verse, as due:
“God bless you, merry gentlemen”—
And gentlewomen, too!

The Missing All—prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World's
Departure from a Hinge—
Or Sun's extinction, be observed—
'Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
For Curiosity.

The brain within its groove
Runs evenly and true;
But let a splinter swerve,
'T were easier for you
To put the water back
When floods have slit the hills,
And scooped a turnpike for themselves,
And blotted out the mills!

A sloop of amber slips away
Upon an ether sea,
And wrecks in peace a purple tar,
The son of ecstasy.