Short Poems

The hammer keeps a-ring-in' on somebody's coffin,
The hammer keeps a ring-in' on somebody's coffin,
Way over in the new burryin' groun'.

Somebody's dying way over yonder,
Somebody's dying way over yonder,
Way over in the new buryin' groun'.

A hare unsafe by land lep'd into th'main,
Flying land-dogs, was by a sea-dog slain.
Poor worm! flyes she to Earth, to sea, to sky,
Each hath a dog, and she by dogs must dye.

Death is a fisherman, the world we see
His fish-pond is, and we the fishes be;
His net some general sickness; howe'er he
Is not so kind as other fishers be;
For if they take one of the smaller fry,
They throw him in again, he shall not die:
But death is sure to kill all he can get,
And all is fish with him that comes to net.

Come, holy tortoise shell,
my lyre, and become a poem.

Alas! what Pains, what racking Thoughts he proves,
Who lives remov'd from her he dearest loves!
In cruel Absence doom'd past Joys to mourn,
And think on Hours that will no more return!
Oh! let me ne'er the Pangs of Absence try,
Save me from Absence, Love, or let me die.

The world hath conquered, the wind hath scattered like dust
Alexander, Caesar, and all that shared their sway:
Tara is grass, and behold how Troy lieth low—
And even the English, perchance their hour will come.

A sparrow hawk proud did hold in wicked jail
Music's sweet chorister, the nightingale;
To whom with sighs she said: O set me free,
And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee.
The hawk replied: I will not lose my diet
To let a thousand such enjoy their quiet.

Ah! the waving lespedeza,
Which spills not a drop
Of the clear dew!

Man in repose: the cassia flowers falling
Night calm: spring mountains empty
Moon surges: startles mountain birds
Sometimes their cries, within spring's torrent.

Its cry is mournful
In the reed-plain, as though it had called to mind
Something which it wanted