Short Poems

Once on a time an inquisitive youth approached Archimedes:—
“Teach me, I pray,” he cried, “teach me the heavenly art,
Which in thy competent hand to the State such profit has yielded,
And has guarded our walls 'gainst the beleaguering host.”
“‘Heavenly’ namest thou Art? ‘Divine’ she is, of a surety,”
Quoth the sage, “and was, ere she protected our arms.
Just her fruit to attain the merest mortal is able;
But, an a Goddess ye woo, seek not a woman alone!”

Life to the bigot is a whip
That lashes creed and laity;
Here lies the one who lost his grip
And cringed to Death—a refugee.

Can drifting clouds and white storks
Be tenants in this world of ours?—
Or you still live on Wu-chou Mountain,
Now that people are coming here?

Tone
Is utterly my own.
Far less exterior than skill,
It comes from the deep centre of the will;
For nobler qualities of Song,
Not singing, but the singer must be strong.

I thought I saw the fallen leaves
Returning to their branches:
Alas, butterflies were they.

I am burnt out. Nevertheless,
The flow'rs have duly bloom'd and faded.

In ashes from the wasted fires of noon,
Aweary of the light,
Comes Evening, a tearful novice, soon
To take the veil of night.

Who gives a gift to bind a friend thereby,
Doth set or put his gift to usury:
And he that gives a gift that is not free,
Give where he list, so that he give not me.
For bought and sold is friendship strange,
Who lives by selling, lives by change;
And he, that loves to change his friend,
Will turn to nothing in the end.

How thin and sharp is the moon tonight!
How thin and sharp and ghostly white
Is the slim curved crook of the moon tonight!

I give more praise to Troy's redoubt
For Love kept in, than War kept out.