Short Poems

I am the tomb of Crethon; here you read
His name; himself is number'd with the dead;
Who once had wealth not less than Gyges' gold;
Who once was rich in stable, stall, and fold;
Who once was blest above all living men—
With lands, how narrow now, how ample then!

Bright dames when first we meet unheeded passe
We read frail charms on Monuments of Glasse.

In Joylesse Streams the Purple Chrystall flows
Till each is nam'd for whome each Bosom glows.

Then Friendship Love and Wine Unite their fires
Then all their Homage pay, where each admires.

What is between us two, we know:
Shake hands and let the whole world go.

Carlyle combined the lit'ry life
With throwing teacups at his wife,
Remarking, rather testily,
“Oh, stop your dodging, Mrs. C.!”

Dear Love, thou gazest at the starlit skies,
Thou who art star to me;
Would I were heaven with all its myriad eyes
Gazing on thee.

Il se passera toujours quelque chose
Derrière
Que je ne verrai pas
Que ne suis-je un phare
Pour tout voir

Here Salomon's body reposes;
Bring roses, ye rebels, bring roses.
Set all of your drumsticks a-moving,
Discretion and Valor approving;
Discretion—he always retreated—
And Valor—the dead he defeated.
Bring roses, ye loyal, bring roses:
As patriot here he re-poses.

So suddenly her life
Had crashed about that grey old country wife,
Naked she stood and gazed
Bewildered while her home about her blazed.
New-widowed and bereft
Of her five sons, she clung to what was left,
Still hugging all she'd got—
A toy gun and a copper coffee-pot.

When I gaze upon the sky
And the sea below, I cry,
Thus be poetry and love,
Deep beneath and bright above.

Give me for life the honest name,
Then take my due arrears of fame.
I am grown deaf, and shall become
A trifle deafer in the tomb.