Short Poems

even on a day
when heaven and earth are still
ants hurry onwards

Forgive ? O yes! How lightly, lightly said!
—Forget? No, never, while the ages roll,
Till God slay o'er again the undying dead,
—And quite unmake my soul!

The thief on the third cross was not forever good
For he reviled his dying god. Yet his live eyes
Dying as man, not god, revealed he had withstood
The torture of extinction. That is paradise.

In the south courtyard everywhere willow floss covers the ground.
Sadly she listens to the sound of a sudden spring's-end shower;
After the rain, the slanting rays of sunset
And scent of almond blossoms fallen and scattered
She silently makes up her sleepy face
And sets the folding screen about her pillow.
The time of day is nearing yellow twilight
As languorous and alone she leans by the gate.

E SSEX , & W ARRWICK , god yu saue & blesse.
Be WARE E XCESSE , make W ARR -with, Wick ednesse.
Virtue to Honour Leades, the right hand Way;
And so Gods Angells guide you Well to S AYE !
Till join'd wth him, that noble H ART af FORDS
Deeds may advance your worths, aboue all words.

To see both blended in one flood,
The mothers' milk, the children's blood,
Make me doubt if heaven will gather
Roses hence, or lilies rather.

O Thou who bidd'st a million germs decay
That one white bloom may soar into the day,
Mine eyes unseal to see their souls in death
Borne back to Thee upon the lily's breath.

I COULD never have the power
To love one above an hour,
But my head would prompt mine eye
On some other man to fly.
Venus, fix mine eyes fast,
Or, if not, give me all that I shall see at last.

Nothing there is that mortal man may utterly despise;
What in our wealth we treasured, in our poverty we prize.

The gold upon a sinking ship has often wrecked the boat,
While on a simple oar a shipwrecked man may keep afloat.

The burglar seeks the plutocrat, attracted by his dress—
The poor man finds his poverty the true preparedness.

What deceit may lurk in kisses!
What delight in make-believe!
To cheat others, sure, a bliss is!
If I'm gulled too, should I grieve?
Play the prude demure, my dearest,
Thou'lt relent in time, I trow;
I'll believe whate'er thou swearest,
What thou'dst fain believe, I'll vow.