Short Poems

What wourde is that that chaungeth not,
Though it be tourned and made in twain?
It is myn aunswer, god it wot,
And eke the causer of my payn.
A love rewardeth with disdain,
Yet is it loved. What would ye more?
It is my helth eke and my sore.

The living ofttimes vex us—
The wise old dead are best—
When Life's vain games perplex us
'T is here we turn for rest.

Go to bed first,
A golden purse.
Go to bed second,
A golden bezant.
Go to bed third,
A golden bird.

There was an Old Man on a hill,
Who seldom, if ever, stood still;
He ran up and down, in his Grandmother's gown,
Which adorned that Old Man on a hill.

Within these circling Hollies Woodbine-clad
Beneath this small blue Roof of vernal Sky
How warm, how still! tho' Tears should dim mine eye,
Yet will my Heart for days continue glad--
For here, my Love! thou art! and here am I!

You say the house is empty, and yours to let:
But are you certain? It would scarcely do,
If I moved in, while there were tenants yet
In occupation. Unless the house is new,
And no one's ever died in it, how can you
Swear that it's empty, and I believe it true?

A wu-t'ung tree a hundred feet tall,
half an acre of shade;
each branch, each leaf filled with the heart of autumn.
When will I be able to leave my bones behind
and fly back here on a phoenix
to hear the white zither in the moonlight?

By the mossy brink,
With me the Prince shall sit and think;
Shall muse in visioned Regency,
Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty.

In the south and in the north,
the snow has kept on falling.

So cold the sound
—in the morning, in the evening—
of the valley wind.

Venus to thee her beauty lends,
Spring doth her bloom impart,
Wisdom and virtue Themis sends,
Persuasion all her art;
The Muses' voice is thine, Athen 's hand,
The Graces three rejoice to add thee to their band.