Short Poems

The path we search for
in your wake
you've already entered,
never straying among
the bitter hills of death

Because I heard you were someone
who had left the household life,
my only thought was to warn you:
don't let your mind dwell
on this borrowed lodging!

Christ, I have read, did to His Chaplains say,
Sending them forth, Salute no man by'th way:
Not, that He taught His Ministers to be
Unsmooth, or sowre, to all civilitie;
But to instruct them, to avoid all snares
Of tardidation in the Lords Affaires.
Manners are good: but till his errand ends,
Salute we must, nor Strangers, Kin, or Friends.

Truggin a Footman was; but now, growne lame,
Truggin now lives but to belye his name.

Too happy Time dissolves itself
And leaves no remnant by—
'Tis Anguish not a Feather hath
Or too much weight to fly—

R EMEMBRANCE , loved remembrance, that is all,
All that the true-born poet's soul desires;
Not more he seeks, not more he hopes to gain,
Cheered by his visions, still his heart aspires,
True to one aim, whatever ills befall,
With death content, if life be not all vain.

The snow envelops the mountain house; the tree shadows darken
The wind chime remains still; the night grows deeper and deeper
Quietly, I gather the scattered books and ponder the difficult words.
An ear of blue lamplight: the heart of the ancients.

Let poetry be
like an air conditioner.
On hot days like this
July 1st in the tropics,
let it remove the humidity
trapped in every room,
and let us sleep easy,
deeply and long.

That I should ever forgive
A faithless man
I never thought:
Has my heart too
In some way changed?

Little body I would hold,
Little feet my hands enfold,
Little head my tears have blessed,
Little mouth that seeks my breast,
Little shining soul that cries
From the worship of his eyes,
I must wait that I may be
Great enough to mother thee.