Short Poems

The morning air blows fresh on him;
The waves are dancing in his sight;
The sea-birds call, and wheel, and skim,
O blessed morning light!
He doth not hear their joyous call; he sees
No beauty in the wave, nor feels the breeze.

“The fewer heirs, the richer, man!
Hold forth your palm, and keep your prate!
Our life, we read, is but a span.
What matters soon or late?”
And when on shore, and asked, Did many die?
“Near half my crew, poor lads!” he 'd say, and sigh.

Many by valour have deserved renown
Ere Agamemnon, yet lie all oppressed
Under long night unwept for and unknown:
For with no sacred poet were they blest.

Here stinks a Poet, I confess,
Yet wanting breath stinks so much less.

Stranger ! thou stand'st upon Thermopylæ!
The pass that led into the heart of Greece,
But gave no passage save through greater hearts:
They keep it still.—Their graves are at thy feet.

Of her free-will she gave it me;
With her own hand she tied it:
Ah! would I could prevail on her
To wish that I should hide it!

The woods have stored the rain, and slow comes the smoke
As rice is cooked on faggots and carried to the fields;
Over the quiet marsh-land flies a white egret,
And mango-birds are singing in the full summer trees. . . .
I have learned to watch in peace the mountain morning-glories,
To eat split dewy sunflower-seeds under a bough of pine,
To yield the post of honour to any boor at all …
Why should I frighten sea-gulls, even with a thought?

Easily we brush
The fallen dust from garments
Gleaming white and fair;
But from the mind beclouded
How hard to sweep the shadows!

Old men and boys search the wet garbage with fingers
and slip pieces in bags.

This fat old man has found the hard end of a bread

Brief is the sliding time allotted thee for breath.
Live as on a mountain. Let men behold a Man.
If they cannot suffer him, let them deal him death.
Better to climb and die than plod in that dull caravan.