Short Poems

One thousand three hundred and ninety nine
Henry the fourth usurped the throne;
Against him Scots and Welsh combine
Rebellions cause him many a groan:
Dan Chaucer now began to write;
A statesman and a poet he;
He oft is called and with good right,
The Father of English poetry.

A ha'penny puddin', a ha'penny pie,
Stand you there, you're out by.

I have swung to the uttermost reaches of pain,
'Mid the echo of sighs, and a deluge of rain,
But ah! I rebound to the limits of bliss,
On the rapturous swing of an infinite kiss.

When was I unfaithful to you?
When did I ever deceive you?
The moon sinks, and it's the third watch;
there is no sign of you.
What can I do about
the falling leaves in the autumn wind?

Some tyme I fled the fyre that me brent
By see, by land, by water and by wynd;
And now I folow the coles that be quent
From Dovor to Calais against my mynde.
Lo! how desire is boeth sprong and spent!
And he may se that whilome was so blynde;
And all his labor now he laugh to scorne,
Mashed in the breers that erst was all to torne.

Short the way, but pitiless
The need to walk it.

Flowers no longer belong to the vase
Fish no longer belong to the fishbowl
Birds no longer belong to the birdcage
Animals no longer belong behind bars
God no longer belongs to the altar

Then Æschylus, a decent vizard used,
Built a low stage; the flowing robe diffus'd;
In language more sublime two actors rage,
And in the graceful buskin tread the stage.

A lover left his new-made bride
And shot a dove with her mate at her side.

If we could meet in privacy,
Where no one else could see,
Softly I'd whisper in thy ear
This little word from me—
‘I'm dying, Love, for thee.’