Short Poems

Can that wretch of Bononia, can Rufa, mean soul!
Can that vile wife of Menius, Rufulus cajole?
She, who haunted each burying-place, merely to steal
From the pile that was burning her infamous meal;
Who, from funeral flames as collecting her meat,
By the low-liv'd, half-shav'd body-burners was beat?

Think, o my Cælius, what disgrace!
Lesbia, yes Lesbia, favourite fair!
She whom Catullus held more dear
E'en than himself, and all his race,
Now in vile lanes, and common roads,
Strips to the skin Rome's demi-gods?

'Tis ridiculous, Cato, 'tis really droll;
When you hear it, I'm sure you will laugh from your soul:
Cato laugh! if to thee thy Catullus is dear;
For 'tis droll, and ridiculous past all compare:
The fact is, that this moment I caught my young blade
Just attempting to rifle an innocent maid;
Then, sweet Venus, if thou wilt not take it amiss,
I'll find out the shaft that shall wound him for this!

He has observed the golden rule
Till he's become the golden fool.

The secret of the stars—gravitation.
The secret of the earth—layers of rock.
The secret of the soil—to receive seed.
The secret of the seed—the germ.
The secret of man—the sower.
The secret of woman—the soil.
My secret: Under a mound that you shall never find.

If you in the village think that my work was a good one,
Who closed the saloons and stopped all playing at cards,
And haled old Daisy Fraser before Justice Arnett,
In many a crusade to purge the people of sin;
Why do you let the milliner's daughter Dora,
And the worthless son of Benjamin Pantier
Nightly make my grave their unholy pillow?

I never saw any difference
Between playing cards for money
And selling real estate,
Practicing law, banking, or anything else.
For everything is chance.
Nevertheless
Seest thou a man diligent in business?
He shall stand before Kings!

Out of a cell into this darkened space—
The end at twenty-five!
My tongue could not speak what stirred within me,
And the village thought me a fool.
Yet at the start there was a clear vision,
A high and urgent purpose in my soul
Which drove me on trying to memorize
The Encyclopedia Britannica!

Henry got me with child,
Knowing that I could not bring forth life
Without losing my own.
In my youth therefore I entered the portals of dust.
Traveler, it is believed in the village where I lived
That Henry loved me with a husband's love
But I proclaim from the dust
That he slew me to gratify his hatred.

There's a combative artist named Whistler
Who is, like his own hog's-hairs, a bristler:
A tube of white lead and a punch on the head
Offer varied attractions to Whistler.