Short Poems

H USH'D on the hill
Is the breeze;
Scarce by the zephyr
The trees
Softly are press'd;
The woodbird's asleep on the bough.
Wait, then, and thou
Soon wilt find rest.

For a single move a thousand
years have gone flowing past

while for the next move a thousand
years have passed and still

no sound of a stone
striking the board.

Parting turns to fire;
it burns up my innards.
Tears become rain; perhaps they'll quench that fire.
But sighs
become the wind; will the fire live or die?

You think yourself a woman,
because you have children and lovers;
but in a street
with only Orion and the Pleiades to see us,
you begin to sing, you begin to skip.

Woman in whose voice
silver and wine mingle
in the rains
From the mirrors of your knees
the day begins its journey
life puts out to sea

Who comes here?
A grenadier.
What do you want?
A pot of beer.
Where is your money?
I've forgot.
Get you gone,
You drunken lot.

Times gettin' hard, boys, money gettin' scarce;
If times don't be no better hyar, boun' to leave dis place.
Take my true love by de han' lead her roun' de town;
When she see dat yellow boy she almos' faint away.

She frowned and called him Mr.
Because in sport he kr.
And so in spite
That very night
This Mr. kr. sr.

Round about me hum the winds of autumn,
Cool between the apple boughs: and slumber,
Flowing from the quiveting leaves to earthward,
Spreads as a river.

Praise the Lord for all the seasons,
Praise Him for the gentle spring,
Praise the Lord for glorious summer,
Birds and beasts and everything.
Praise the Lord Who sends the harvest,
Praise Him for the winter snows;
Praise the Lord, all ye who love Him,
Praise Him, for all things He knows.