Short Poems

Although I do not know
At all whether anything
Honourably deigns to be there,
Yet in extreme awe
My tears well forth.

Should Heaven send me any son,
I hope he's not like Tennyson.
I'd rather have him play a fiddle
Than rise and bow and speak an idyll.

If the ass that bore the Saviour
Were to Mecca driven, he
Would not alter, but would be
Still an ass in his behaviour.

O' ER the Mediterranean sea
Proudly hath the Orient sprung;
Who loves Hafis and knows him, he
Knows what Calderon hath sung.

Let this house's glory rise,
Handed to far ages down,
And the son his honour prize,
As the father his renown.

The mirror tells me, I am fair!
Thou sayest, to grow old my fate will be.
Nought in God's presence changeth e'er,—
Love Him, for this one moment, then, in me.

Oh world, with what baseness and guilt thou art rife!
Thou nurturest, trainest, and killest the while.

He only whom Allah doth bless with his smile
Is train'd and is nurtured with riches and life.

For woman due allowance make!
Form'd of a crooked rib was she,—
By Heaven she could not straight'ned be.
Attempt to bend her, and she'll break;
If left alone, more crooked grows madam;
What well could be worse, my good friend, Adam?—
For woman due allowance make;
'Twere grievous, if thy rib should break!

Not a life below the sun
But is precious—unto one!
Not an eye, however dull,
But seems—somewhere—beautiful;
Not a heart, howe'er despised,
But is passioned for and prized.
Fool! who laughs at lack of graces,
Each man hath a many faces!

Some have learn't many tricks of sly evasion,
Instead of truth they use equivocation,
And eke it out with mental reservation,
Which, to good men, is an abomination.
Our smith of late most wonderfully swore,
That whilst he breathed he would drink no more,
But since, I know his meaning, for I think,
He meant he would not breathe whilst he did drink.