Short Poems

The little birches haunt the hills
In silent, silver masses,
Their violet velvet shadow robes
Beside them on the grasses.

The Indians dance for tourist trade
And speak an alien tongue,
But dream of years and years ago
When their tribe was young.
With stolid pride and bitter heart
They know the race is dying—
Religion, a commercial right
Gods are exercising.

None to another be like, yet each resemble the Highest!
How can that be achieved? Each be consummate himself.

Strive, an thou mayst, for the whole; and if thou fail to attain it,
To some whole belong as a subservient part.

Never a taste has he of the fruit which springs from his labour:
Appetite only enjoys what erudition has sown.

What I had been in thine absence I know not, and earnestly sorrow
As the crowds I mark, who never owned thee at all.

Say, was it always thus?—Generations are hard to distinguish.
This generation is young; that which arises is old.

Thee would I have for a mentor and friend. Thy living ideal
Teaches me, and thy words sink to the depth of my heart.

Thou wouldst teach me truth?—Nay, spare the trouble! the object
Not through thee do I seek; by it will estimate thee.

Give me a share of thy knowledge, and, friend, I will eagerly take it.
But an thou offer thyself, pray my excuses accept.