Short Poems

Hail to thee, blithe owl!
Bird thou never wantest to been.
Queenly and efflorien,
How did thou ever begin?

He had no hat on,
And only had a grey plaid wrapped about him.
It is nothing to describe,
But on a bare moor,
Alone with his sheep,
Standing as he did
In utter quietness
And silence. . . .

Famished Prodigal, in vain—
Thy portion spent—thou seek'st again
Thy father's door;
His all with latest sigh bequeathed
To thee the wanderer—he breathed,
Alas! no more.

I do not like a swagger captain
Who stands with legs apart,
Or wears his hair in flowing ringlets,
Or shaves with careful art.
But give me one of slender stature,
With well-turned legs and smart,
Who walks along unfaltering, strong,
While courage fills his heart.

He has nothing to say, but he says it so well
That vacuity gleams like an exquisite shell!

If there's a wind, we get it
Straight from the shoulder of rock,
Bowling over boulders
Racketing through the house
Spray steaming mists rolling
Daisies ducking in the hullabaloo.
What a brawl until the sun appears
Majestic, like the law.

Scarred with sensuality and pain
And weary labor in a mind not hard
Enough to think, a heart too always tender,
Sits the Christ of failure with his lovers.
They are wiser than his parables,
But he more potent, for he has the gift
Of hopelessness, and want of faith, and love.

Enjoy the sweets of life's luxuriant May,
Ere envious Age is hastening on his way
With snowy wreaths to crown the beauteous brow;
The rose will fade when storms assail the year,
And Time who changeth not his swift career,
Constant in this, will change all else below!

with neither an entrance
nor an exit, the huge
field-crop of flowers

Thus from the village where aloof
A cottage rears its humble roof,
Of dirt and clay compos'd, a shrine,
To gentle goddess Cloacine;
Close by its side devoted stands,
There placed by careful Clodpole's hands,
Lest the first storm, that frowns on day,
Should blow the tottering pile away.