Short Poems

The Mountains of the Scriptures are (some say)
Moses, and Iesus, called Iosbua:
The Prophets Mountains of the Old are meant;
Th' Apostles Mounts of the New Testament.

No heart that holds one right desire
Treadeth the road of loss! He who should fail,
Desiring righteousness, cometh at death
Unto the region of the Just; dwelleth there
Measureless years, and, being born anew,
Beginneth life again in some fair home
Amid the mild and happy.

Plucking the vine leaves, hear my song:
“A day without him is three months long.”

Stripping the southernwoods, hear my song:
“A day without him is three autumns long.”

Reaping the tall grass hear my song:
“A day without him's three years long.”

The warp is hoar-frost and the woof is dew,—
Too frail, alas! the warp and woof to be:
For scarce the woods their damask robes endue,
When, torn and soil'd, they flutter o'er the lea.

List to that bird! His song—what poet pens it?
Brigand of birds, he 's stolen every note!
Prince though of thieves—hark! how the rascal spends it!
Pours the whole forest from one tiny throat!

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,
Home again, home again, jiggety jig;
To market, to market, to buy a fat hog,
Home again, home again, jiggety jog;
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,
Home again, home again, market is done.

I AM content with now, whate'er befall,
Whether I will or no, Today is all.
No matter whether swift or slow my tread,
I find Tomorrow still a day ahead;
I cannot overtake eternity—
It turns to time and slips away from me;
And, in like wise, I go upon my way
Only a day ahead of yesterday!

The pedlar who goes from shop to shop,
has seated himself on the stairs in the dim hallway,
and the basket of apples upon his knees, breathes the odor.

To north and south are spring floods,
Where ceaseless flocks of gulls soar.
No guest had found my dim path
Till you approached the closed door.
The market's far for food's taste,
The household's poor for wine's store;
But if the neighbor's called in,
He'll drink with us a cup more.

Living in retirement beyond the World,
Silently enjoying isolation,
I pull the rope of my door tighter
And stuff my window with roots and ferns.
My spirit is tuned to the Spring-season:
At the fall of the year there is autumn in my heart.
Thus imitating cosmic changes
My cottage becomes a Universe.