Short Poems

Upon those lips, those placid lips, I look
Nor grieve that they are still and mute as death;
I gaze—I read as in an Angel's Book,
And ask not speech from them, but long for breath.

This autumn night the wind blows shrill,
And would that I could catch
Its message, as it whistles through
The rushes in the thatch,
And leaves of my rice-patch.

The soft, strange note of the doves, to what may we liken the sound,
As they flutter high at the eaves or flock for food to the ground?
Their murmurings shy, remote, like a lost year's memory seem,
Like melody heard under water, or music dimmed by a dream.

Inty, minty, tippity, fig,
Dinah, donah, norma, nig,
Oats, floats, country notes,
Dinah, donah, tiz,
Halla-ballop-bulloo,

I long to pass away, straight from sweet dreams,
Buried in the cherry-flowers.

They sing, they drain their cups of jade,
They strum on horseback their guitars.
… Why laugh when they fall asleep drunk on the sand?—
How many soldiers ever come home?

O glory, glory, hallelujah!
O glory, glory to the Lamb;
O glory, glory, hallelujah!
Child of God, that's what I am!

He leadeth me into green pastures,
Child of God, that's what I am!

Why will not Saba in a glass behold
Her face, since she grew wrinkled, pale and old?
Doubtless, I think she doubts that ugly sight,
Like cow-turn'd Io would herself affright.

In its jar the octopus dreams
A brief dream 'neath the summer moon.

If you stick
a handle in the moon,
it makes a good fan!