Short Poems

Love has such a lot to say,
Christmas says it in a word,
Half in earnest, half in play,
Love has such a lot to say
Sorrow sets a holiday
Comforted with all she heard.
Love has such a lot to say
Christmas says it in a word.

Good old Homer, to thee I entrust my delicate secret;
For the romance of Love touches a poet alone.

With the ignoble expires his fleeting glory—thy chosen,
Heavenly Muse, thou bearst safe to Mnemosyne's arms.

Which will abide amid all the philosophies? Marry, I know not:
But Philosophy's self—may it eternally live.

All that in Art is best, thou askest? But were it fitting?
Art thou worthy the good, antagonistic in aim?

Just on the strength of a verse achieved, with an adequate accent,
Which thy judgment approves—art thou a poet indeed?

Under a girdle her grace Aphrodite in mystery harbours;
Modesty veiled it is which her attraction adorns.

Mostly a master's fame depends on that which he utters;
But the judiciously dumb—he is the master of Art.

Language serves for thee as body does to adorers.
Snatches asunder at will, or in one being unites.

Why is a spirit alive to kindred spirits a stranger?
Only arouse the soul, and it is silent for aye.