Short Poems

I dreamt
That there was applied to my person
A sword-blade.
Of what (can this be) an omen?
It means I am going to meet you.

And in a blesséd mist looked Mary's eyes
That daylong over Jesus gently smiled;
Old tender Galilean lullabies
Sang she, untroubled, to a happy child.

This is the smart of life: the ceaseless round
Of toilsome days that yield nor sign nor sound,
Whether the act repays the ache it cost,
Whether the ended day was lived or lost.

Weeping over battle, many new ghosts,
In sorrow reciting poems, an old man all alone
A tumult of clouds sinks downward in sunset,
Hard-pressed, the snow dances in whirlwinds
Ladle cast down, no green lees in the cup,
The brazier lingers on, fire seems crimson
From several provinces now news has ceased—
I sit here in sorrow tracing words in air.

Together, we drink; the mountain flowers open
A cup; a cup, and one more cup.
Drunk, I'd sleep; you go
Tomorrow, come again: Do bring your lute.

Quitting my horse, a cup with you I drank
And drinking, asked you whither you were bound.
Your hopes unprospered, said you, turned you round
To sleep amid the Range's outer ground.
You went I asked no more. The White Clouds pass,
And never yet have any limit found.

Indulgence in the flowing bowl
Impedes the culture of the soul;
And yet, when all around me swill,
Shall I alone be sober still?

Now that he has a child
he knows all the local dogs

I hear the window,
It is splashed, lashed:
I hear the forest,
There is rain in the gesticulating branches:
I hear the thrush,
There is rain in his tawny throat;
I hear my mother in the kitchen singing as she peels peaches:
There is rain in her dark heart.

The wind was so bitter that the Italian mother and child were blown back at the corner …
The little boy cried, whimpering against the world …
Quickly the mother took her shabby fur from her neck
And wrapped it about her son …
Then they went on, both of them content.