Short Poems

Far from the deep roar of the Ægean main,
Here lie we in the midst of Media's plain.
Farewell, great Fatherland! Farewell to thee,
Eubœa's neighbor, Athens! Farewell, Sea!

Her name is at my tongue whene'er I speak,
Her shape's before my eyes where'er I stir,
Both day and night, as if her ghost did walk,
And not she me, but I had murdered her.

E NWERI saith,—ne'er lived a man more true;
The deepest heart, the highest head he knew,—
“In ev'ry place and time thou'lt find availing
Uprightness, judgment, kindliness unfailing.”

Drain not to its dregs
The sweet wine-cup that floweth:—
The cup of the spring
With its bloom or of autumn
When the maple-fire gloweth.

There was an Old Person of Rye,
Who went up to town on a fly;
But they said, ‘If you cough, you are safe to fall off!
You abstemious Old Person of Rye!’

I know 'tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish
Than if 'twere Truth. It has been often so:
Must I die under it? ls no one near?
Will no one hear these stifled groans, & wake me?

Why should he wake up chuckling? Only hark!
Chuckle on chuckle, lying in the dark
Alone in his little cot. What may there be
That we for all our wisdom cannot see,
Gazing grave-eyed, in the old heart of night
To fill his baby heart with such delight?

No, Daisy, lift not up thine ear,
It is not she whose steps draw near.
Tuck under thee that leg, for she
Continues yet beyond the sea,
And thou may'st whimper in thy sleep
These many days, and start and weep.

No insect smells so fulsome as that hard
Unseemly beetle which corrodes the rose.
Bring forth your microscope; about the bard
One very like it (only less) it shows.

Is it a dragonfly or a maple leaf
That settles softly down upon the water?