Short Poems

Just now,
Out of the strange
Still dusk . . . as strange, as still . . .
A white moth flew. Why am I grown

Stay, if you list, O passer by the way;
Yet night approaches; better not to stay.
I never sigh, nor flush, nor knit the brow,
Nor grieve to think how ill God made me, now.
Here, with one balm for many fevers found,
Whole of an ancient evil, I sleep sound.

a goldbug crawling
in the shade of leaves—

All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.
If naught seem better, nothing's worse:
All women born are so perverse.
From Adam's wife, that proved a curse,
Though God had made her for a blessing,
All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.

Ail i'r ar ael Eryri,
Cyfartal hoewal a hi.
The brow of Snowdon shall be levelled with the ground, and the eddying waters shall murmur round it.

“If I could set the moon upon
This table,” said my friend,
“Among the standard poets
And brochures without end,
And noble prints of old Japan,
How empty they would seem,
By that encyclopædia
Of whim and glittering dream.”

“Gone to gather herbs”—
So they say of you.
But in cloud-girt hills,
What am I to do?

To die is glory;
Yet before the soldiers' shrine,
All pale with waiting,
Low, in sacrificial tears,
Parents, wives and children kneel.

Per abbellir le immagini dipinte,
Alle vive imitar pose tal cura,
Che a belle far le vere sue natura,
Oggi vuole imitar le costui finte.

Mio nome fu Riccardo, e gli occhi apersi
In grembo alla bellissima Firenze.
Abbondai di ricchezza, e non per tanto
Giammai da me si scompagnò valore,
Però non sia chi di mia morte pianga.