Short Poems

O Dauntless soul, I too have scorned all censure
And fought the fight and shot my arrow true;
Though sorely hurt I've sought Truth's high adventure,
Nor do I now seek peace nor pardon sue.

Thou need'st not boast, 'cause thou afore does go,
If that be honour, my dog does so too.

God made a wonderful mother,
A mother who never grows old;
He made her smile of the sunshine,
And He molded her heart of pure gold;
In her eyes He placed bright shining stars,
In her cheeks, fair roses you see;
God made a wonderful mother,
And He gave that dear mother to me.

a bush warbler—
my hands in the kitchen sink
rest for a while

I am in love with him to whom a hyacinth is dearer
Than I shall ever be dear.
On nights when the field-mice are abroad he cannot sleep:
He hears their narrow teeth at the bulbs of his hyacinths.
But the gnawing at my heart he does not hear.

Ten miles of flat land along the sea.
Sandland where the salt water kills the sweet potatoes.
Homes for sandpipers—the script of their feet is on the sea shingles—they write in the morning, it is gone at noon—they write at noon, it is gone at night.
Pity the land, the sea, the ten mile flats, pity anything but the sandpipers' wire legs and feet.

Go, little Book; from this my solitude,
I cast thee on the waters:—go thy ways!
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,
The World will find thee, after many days.
Be it with thee according to thy worth:—
Go, little Book! in faith I send thee forth.

How many million stars there be,
That only God hath numberéd;
But this one only chosen for me
In time before her face was fled.
Shall not one mortal man alive
Hold up his head?

Even here in my house of pain
I still have some attachments.

Smoke rises quietly
around a makeshift hut.