Short Poems

their mom being ill
children do not fight—
cold supper for them!

Fame, register of time,
Write in thy scrowle, that I
Of wisdome lover, and sweet poesie,
Was cropped in my prime,
And ripe in worth, tho' green in yeares, did dye.

The barest ledge of rock, if but a seed
Alight upon it, lets the pine-tree grow:—
If, then, thy love for me be love indeed,
We'll come together, dear; it must be so!

O Thou! What e'er may thy attention draw—
Priest, pedant, Punsibi, et cetera—
Whether you choose t' adopt a solemn air,
Or sit and doze in Busby's easy chair,
Or praise yourself, or vilify mankind,
Or what the head may want, lash in behind:
Though mean my verse, yet be thy spleen witheld;
Grieve not, my Tom, to see thy own excelled.

I can always keep my temper
When I'm alone.
It's only other folks

Whenas in furs my Julia goes,
Of slaughtered vermin goodness knows,
What tails depend upon her clothes!

Next, when I cast my eyes and see
The living whelp she lugs to tea,
Oh, how their likeness taketh me!

Behold, whatever wind prevail,
Slow westering, a phantom sail—
The lonely soul of Yesterday—
Unpiloted, pursues her way.

Save the Guru who will remove my pain?
Age after age I was sinful and soiled: while picking mustard seed I chanced on a jewel.
Finding the jewel I could not rest: forthwith I took it to one who could test it.
The jewel was tested by all the Sadhus: from that day rest has come to my soul.
Dharm Das prays with clasped hands: that the Guru, changeless, immortal, he find in Kabir.

Within the country
Hamlets, God be praised, to-day
Still linger, here and
There, the simple, sweet old ways,
In homes old-fashioned.

A summer room where, lying down,
I see the clouds as they go past.