Short Poems

I WILL not sing my little puny songs.
It is more blessed for the rippling pool
To be absorbed in the great ocean-wave
Than even to kiss the sea-weeds on its breast.
Therefore in passiveness I will lie still,
And let the multitudinous music of the Greek
Pass into me, till I am musical.

The drunken guest clings to my sleeve,
My gauze sleeve gets torn as I shake him off.
I don't mind the torn blouse,
I only fear the end of our love.

the grass roots
extending to the sleep

Be thankful to the fields,
Though summer's sweets lie dead;
It was their fleece that clothed you,
Their green blades brought you bread.

Rivers have been no bar, thou hast faced the terrors of ocean,
And in the loftiest alps dizzying arches hast dared
Me in my home to see, and yield me intimate honour,
Such as the voice of the world yields in inspired acclaim.
Now in my presence thou art, my sanctified essence is o'er thee,
Yet are we nearer akin? Which can appreciate which?

Annie Bolanny,
Tillie annie go sanny,
Tee-legged, tie-legged,
Bow-legged Annie.

Three have seen my beauty zoneless,
Three I know, but only these,
Anchises, Paris, and Adonis;
But when didst thou, Praxiteles?

If ever mortal in the days of yore
By Heav'n a thousand years of life was lent,
I wot not; but if never seen before,
Be thou the man to make the precedent!

a politician is an arse upon
which everyone has sat except a man

Drowned in the thundering roll of the Organ's deep diapason,
All unheard are the songs sung by the lowly of heart.
Soon are the loud tones mute, all dying away in the distance;
While those songs of the heart open the portal of Heaven.