Short Poems

Oh, Boston, Boston, thou hast nought to boast on
But a grand sluice and a high steeple
And a coast as souls are lost on.

Weaver am I—of tapestries;
Weaving from the tangled threads
Of other men—
Abandoned certainties
Which I must tear to shreds
And weave again.

Goosey, goosey, gander,
Where shall I wander?
Upstairs, downstairs,
And in my lady's chamber.
There I met an old man
Who would not say his prayers;
I took him by the left leg
And threw him down the stairs.

Cripple Dick on a stick,
And Sandy on a soo,
Ride away to Galloway
To buy a pund o' woo';

“The flesh is defiled,”—so they all declare;
But the spirit is pure, clearly discerning,
Without defilement is no flesh created,
Anywhere in all the world,
The defilement of flesh is in the flesh itself, of a surety.
So says the wife of Chokha, the Mahar.

“How very soon your roses die!”
Said Love to Flora with a sneer:
“True” was the blushing nymph's reply
“And yours, do they last all the year?”

Say me, wight in the brom,
Teche me how I shule don
That min housebonde
Me lovien wolde.’

‘Hold thine tunge stille
And have al thine wille.’

Three feet up, cauld and dead,
Twa feet doun, flesh and bluid;
The head o' the livin' in the mouth o' the dead:
An auld man wi' a pot on his head.

Vesta , who dwell'st in Pytho's hallow'd shrine,
And with Apollo shar'st the rite divine;
Whose locks ambrosial unguents ever shed,
O'er this bless'd dome, with Jove, thy influence spread.

The words that pass from lip to lip
For souls still out of reach!
A friend for that companionship
That's deeper than all speech!