Short Poems

farewell to autumn—
stars sparkle on the water
of the twentieth night

The pigeon on the rocks has an anklet about each foot;
the feet slip a little on the granite.
The pigeon shrinks from the
spray
and peers into the
holes
between the rocks.

Dense flowers, a riot of stamens,
make the riverbank terrible,
But I walk on, precariously tottering,
truly afraid of spring,
And bear still the drivings of wine and song,
I endure,
Not yet finished off—this white-haired old man.

To-night in million-voicèd London I
Was lonely as the million-pointed sky
Until your single voice. Ah! So the Sun
Peoples all heaven, although he be but one.

Tell me not, O mournful poet,
Life is but an empty dream.
Well enough, alas! I know it,
And I'm weary of the theme.

Great Nature she doth clothe the soul within
A fleshly garment which the Fates do spin.
And when these garments are grown old and bare,
With sickness torn, Death takes them off with care,
And folds them up in peace and quiet rest,
And lays them safe within an earthly chest;
Then scours them, and makes them sweet and clean,
Fit for the soul to wear those clothes again.

a graceful handsome youth
well versed in classics and histories
everyone calls him sir
they all address him scholar
but he hasn't been able to get a position
and he doesn't know how to handle a plow
this is how books fool us

The other night she hurried in,
Her face was wild with fear:
“Old friend,” she said. “I am pursued,
May I take refuge here?”

cloudy sky—
the peony's radiance

Farewell , old friend and comrade, sweet Sir John!
Far from our hideous homes and vulgar ways
Thy stories of the Past have led us on
To the warm heart of English Chaucer's days—
Days once as stormy and as wild as ours:
But never shall the Present that we see,
Though drawn far off, to any future hours
Seem fair as that which England owes to thee.