Short Poems

By those who themselves more bravely have fought
A hero's praise will be joyfully told.
The worth of man can only be taught
By those who have suffer'd both heat and cold.

To keep our proper place,
We'll show our bristles more;
With hawks men all things chase,
Except the savage boar.

Would we let our envy burst,
Feed its hunger fully first!

The mountains are cold and blue now
And the autumn waters have run all day.
By my thatch door, leaning on my staff,
I listen to cicadas in the evening wind.
Sunset lingers at the ferry,
Supper-smoke floats up from the houses.
… Oh, when shall I pledge the great Hermit again
And sing a wild poem at Five Willows?

The noise of passing feet
On the prairie—
Is it men or gods
Who come out of the silence?

When I saw you, you went to my head,
You were like wine to my brain,
I walked in London through the rain,
To see a man who had been ten years dead.
For pleasure I forgot the years,
Old time, old death, old tears.

Hot July thereafter rages,
Dog-star smitten, wild with heat;
Fierce as pard the hunter cages,
Hot July thereafter rages
Traffic now no more engages;
Tongues are still in stall and street.

The Cypriot woman, as she closed her dress,
Smiled at the baby on her broad-lapped knee,
Beautiful in a calm voluptuousness
Like a slow sea.

The year one thousand five hundred and nine
Brought Henry the eighth to rule the nation;
A despot strong and a weak divine
He lent a hand to the reformation.
That hand he did encarnadine
With blood of some in lofty station:
Most of his wives, as I opine,
Had cause to rue their elevation.

The year one thousand four hundred thirteen
Did Harry the fifth to power advance;
The Frenchmen hear his name with spleen,
Because of his triumphs in boastful France.
As Prince of Wales he lived but ill;
As King he gained a good report:
Ten thousand Frenchmen his soldiers kill
In gaining the battle of Agincourt.