Short Poems

I saw three wounded of the war:
And the first had lost his eyes;
And the second went on wheels and had
No legs below the thighs;
And the face of the third was featureless,
And his mouth ran cornerwise,
So I made a rhyme about each one,
And this is how my fancies run.

I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore,
By a lonely isle, by a far Azore,
There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek,
On the barren sands of a desolate creek.

"Prepare to meet the King of Terrors,' cried
To prayerless Want, his plunderer ferret-eyed:
"I am the King of Terrors,' Want replied.

Under my windows, between the road and the sea-cliff, bitter wild grass
Stands narrowed between the people and the storm.
The ocean winter after winter gnaws at its earth, the wheels and the feet
Summer after summer encroach and destroy.
Stubborn green life, for the cliff-eater I cannot comfort you, ignorant which color,
Gray-blue or pale-green, will please the late stars;
But laugh at the other, your seed shall enjoy wonderful vengeances and suck
The arteries and walk in triumph on the faces.

Certain branches cut
certain leaves fallen
the grapes
cooked and put up
for winter

their red cloaks
wrapped tight to the bone

When the thought of the conscious soul is bent on the practice of folly
In the waters of the mirage it is swept headlong where water there is none.
It is swept away in the waterless torrent, and no where finds a foot-hold.
Now here now there it is plunged in the torrent, again and again it returns once more.
Girdhar the poet cries, To whom can I make my praye
When bent on the practice of folly are the thoughts of the conscious soul?

E'en as the precious diamond,
when left unpolished,
No gemlike lustre showeth,
its worth to token;
Nor good nor ill attaineth
the soul of mortal,
Apart from friendship's shaping,
life's crudeness broken.

Some friend of mine, may be,
After my lonely death may let her see
How foolish were her idle doubts of me;
But no! how can I think the rolling Wheel of Fate
Should turn to favour one so long unfortunate?

Vice now may lift aloft her speckled head,
And front the sun undaunted: Pope is dead!

To You—the music of silence,
The calm of delirious storm,
To You—the peace beyond passion—
The shadow of flame,
To You—the dawn of the midnight,
To You—forgetfulness' dream,
Oblivion, Prayer of the Senses—
Adorations supreme!