Short Poems

Willie, with a thirst for gore,
Nailed his sister to the door.
Mother said, with humor quaint:
“Now, Willie dear, don't scratch the paint.”

(Like) the waves that ripple
Over the rough shore
Of the sea of Ago,
My longing (for you)
Has no time when it ceases.

Thou art merciful, I am helpless. Thou art generous, I a beggar.
I am the chief of sinners: Thou takest away a mountain of sins.
Thou art the Master of the masterless—who is masterless as I?
There is no suffering great as mine: there is none who removest suffering as Thou dost.
Thou art Brahm, I am Jiva: Thou art Master, I am servant.
Thou art father, mother, teacher, friend, companion in all my ways.
Many are the ties twixt Thee and me: whichever pleases Thee, think of me so.
That thus of Thy good pleasure Tulsi Das may find protection at Thy feet.

But he no more shall haunt the beach,
Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown,
Nor go the round of all that reach,
Nor feebly sit him down,
Watching the swaying weeds:—another day,
And he 'll have gone far hence that dreadful way.

In thick, dark nights he 'd take his seat
High up the cliffs, and feel them shake,
As swung the sea with heavy beat
Below,—and hear it break
With savage roar, then pause and gather strength,
And, then, come tumbling in its swollen length.

O, it is sad that aught so mild
Should bind the soul with bands of fear;
That strains to soothe a little child,
The man should dread to hear.
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace,—unstrung
The harmonious chords to which the angels sung.

A sweet, low voice, in starry nights,
Chants to his ear a plaining song;
Its tones come winding up the heights,
Telling of woe and wrong;
And he must listen till the stars grow dim,
The song that gentle voice doth sing to him.

And now the mist seems taking shape,
Forming a dim gigantic ghost,—
Enormous thing! There 's no escape;
'T is close upon the coast.
Lee kneels, but cannot pray.—Why mock him so!
The ship has cleared the fog, Lee, see her go!

The rocks are dripping in the mist
That lies so heavy off the shore;
Scarce seen the running breakers;—list
Their dull and smothered roar!
Lee hearkens to their voice.—“I hear, I hear
You call.—Not yet!—I know my time is near!”

But not to Lee. He sits alone;
No fellowship nor joy for him;
Borne down by woe,—but not a moan,—
Though tears will sometimes dim
That asking eye. O, how his worn thoughts crave—
Not joy again, but rest within the grave.