Short Poems

In all my Emma's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.

I am weary of doing and dating
The day with the thing to be done,
This painful self translating
To a language not My Own
Give me to fashion a thing;
Give me to shape and to mould;
I have found out the song I can sing,
I am happy, delivered, and bold.

Winter shakes
the iced plums
by the lonely wall.

There are no toys
like walking
in this paktong garden.

Now play me something sweet, for the Nymphs' sake,
Upon the double flutes. Come, I will take
My bow, and touch out something to begin;
And Daphnis here with pleasure will throw in
His wax-cemented breaths—We'll seat us there
Behind the cave, close by the oak's old hair,
And through the leaves wake Pan with a sweet air.

There was a small child at Narkunda,
Who said, ‘Don't you hear! That is thunder!’
But they said, ‘It's the Bonzes, a-making responses,
In a temple eight miles from Narkunda.’

There was an Old Person of Hyde,
Who walked by the shore with his bride,
Till a Crab who came near, fill'd their bosoms with fear,
And they said, ‘Would we'd never left Hyde!’

There was an Old Person of Sark,
Who made an unpleasant remark;
But they said, ‘Don't you see what a brute you must be!
You obnoxious Old Person of Sark.’

There was an Old Sailor of Compton,
Whose vessel a rock it once bump'd on;
The shock was so great, that it damaged the pate
Of that singular Sailor of Compton.

There was an Old Man of th' Abruzzi,
So blind that he couldn't his foot see;
When they said, ‘That's your toe,’ he replied, ‘Is it so?’
That doubtful Old Man of th' Abruzzi.

There was an Old Man of Columbia,
Who was thirsty, and called out for some beer;
But they brought it quite hot, in a small copper pot,
Which disgusted that Man of Columbia.