Short Poems

Lo! on the summer moor
A horse carries its own fodder.

The iridescent vibrations of midsummer light
Dancing, dancing, suddenly flickering and quivering,
Like little feet or the movement of quick hands clapping,
Or the rustle of furbelows, or the clash of polished gems.
The sparkling mosaic of the mid-day light
Colliding, sliding, leaping and lingering:
Oh, I could lie on my back all day,
And mark the mad ballet of the midsummer sky.

Upon the temple bell
A butterfly is sleeping well.

Pray, don't forget, my friend,
The plum-bloom in the grove.

In thy happy domain is all comprised, and a greybeard
Harks in childlike age back to the days of his youth.

There is a secret laughter
That often comes to me,
And though I go about my work
As humble as can be,
There is no prince or prelate
I envy—no, not one.
No evil can befall me—
By God, I have a son!

Embroideries not e'en yet worn
Are tarnished by the rains of June.

If all the charms of her celestial mind
With outward splendor in her features shin'd,
Our sex would universal rivals prove,
And the world fall a victim to her love.

The poor working girl,
May heaven protect her,
She has such an awf'ly hard time;
The rich man's daughter goes haughtily by,
My God! do you wonder at crime!

Brave weathercock, I see thou'lt set thy nose
Against the wind, which way soe'er it blows:
So let a Christian in any wise
Face Antichrist in each disguise.