Short Poems

Hunt till you find him, Hallelujah,
And ahuntin' for de Lord;
Till you find him, Hallelujah,
And ahuntin' for de Lord.

Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music.
And death a note unsaid.

Because, while I kept on trusting,
The nights that you did not come had ended by being so many, I thought I would not wait,—but ended by waiting all the longer!

Bookplate ? I never had one. And my shelves
Carry no monstrous burden of books themselves.
Into a book called Life I oftener dip,
But even there I find a deal to skip:
Parts without glow—lack-lustre passages—
Its myriad soulless leaves—and round all these
The nightmare riddle of its authorship.

O how the heavens ring
While seraphs sweetly sing;
O what a holy thing,
While all their incense bring
To Zion's sacred Kind,
And shout Amen! to all the praise.

They say there is
A still pool even in the middle of
The rushing whirlpool,—
Why is there none in the whirlpool of my love?

Followed by his lodge, shabby men stumbling over the cobblestones,
and his children, faces red and ugly with tears, eyes and eyelids red,
in the black coffin in the black hearse the old man.

No longer secretly grieving
that his children are not strong enough to go the way he wanted to go
and was not strong enough.

You were the morning star among the living:
But now in death your evening lights the dead.

Love's roses I gathered, all dewy, in May,
My heart holds the breath of their attar to-day;
And now, while the blasts of the winter winds ring,
I hear not the tempest, I'm dreaming of Spring.

The labour that but stirs the earth
Imparts to worthless matter worth.