Short Poems

Away with silks, away with lawn,
I'll have no scenes, or curtains drawn:
Give me my mistress as she is,
Dressed in her nak'd simplicities;
For as my heart, e'en so mine eye
Is won with flesh, not drapery.

A just man's like a Rock that turnes the wroth
Of all the raging Waves, into a froth.

Revere thy roof; life has no more
To give than now is at the door.
Where looks the clear, home-keeping eye,
There is the angel standing by.

You , like most Gyrants that give Fear and Pain,
Sternly forbid the Suff'rers to complain:
Tho' when our Anguish rises to Excess,
Complaint, without Relief, were some Redress.
For in all Grief and Pain, the greatest Pain
Is sure to want the Freedom to complain.
And in the Pain of Love, as of the Gout,
There's some kind of Relief in crying out.

Poor Kitty Popcorn, buried in a snow drift now!
Never more we'll hear the music of her gladsome song,
“Me-o-o-o-w!”

Oh, she had a happy home beneath the Southern sky,
But she packed her goods and left it when our troops came by,
And she fell into the column with a low, glad cry,

O roc, don't ridicule the small black birds:
You and the little birds both fly way up in the clouds,
You're a bird,
They're birds.
Really, I can't see much difference between you!

The crystal spears of slantwise-driven Rain
Right gallantly assail the churlish Mold
That in his frozen fastness doth enchain
The Princess Daffodil, of trembling gold.

I have made life my mistress—built temples
Of song to her in my heart, paraded
Before her enemy Death. And smiling
Have kissed Life before Death's envious eyes
Proud in my lust, gay in my strength, love-wise.

But often in my dreams I've wished to touch
The cool sophisticated lips of Death.

Yellow the bracken,
Golden the sheaves,
Rosy the apples,
Crimson the leaves;
Mist on the hillside,
Clouds grey and white.
Autumn, good morning!
Summer, good night!

In the spring the Leaves come out
And the little Poetlets sprout;
Everywhere they may be seen,
Each as Fresh as each is Green.
Each hangs on through scorch and scoff
Till the fall, when both “come off,”
With this difference, be it said,
That the leaves at least are Red.