Short Poems

Si tu es paouvre, Anthoine, tu es bien
En grand dangier d'estre paovre sans cesse:
Car aujourd'huy on ne donne plus rien,
Sinon à ceulx qui ont force richesse.

O menscheyt bloß, O marter gros,
O wunden tiff, O blutis craft,
O todis bitterkeyt, O du clare gotheit,
Hulff vns zcu der Ewigen seligkeyt! Amen.

The whitebait looks as if
The soul (colour) of the water moves.

Ich am of Irlonde
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlonde.
Gode sire, pray ich thee,
For of saynte charite,
Come ant dance wyth me

Along all ways the path of triumph lies;
All places own the victor's art,—
To do that greater thing than win the prize,
Lose it, unhurt in hope, in heart.

Tell me what is
The Judgment Day?
It is when unto God
You dream away.

Jove is no proper lover, that I know;
Or else he'd change and come again below.
Leda, Europa, Danaë were fair,
But none with my proud beauty could compare:
Perhaps he scorns a lass who can be bought,
And only to princesses pays his court.

Now to the right, now to the left I turn;
Her place is empty—and I burn.
I twist, and toss, and turn again
Rest brings no respite to my pain.
And restless still I shall abide
Until I have Gemella by my side.

this trip
likely the one I'll die on
dandelions gone to fuzz.

I tell you what, you wanderers, who drift from town to town;
Don't look into a good girl's eyes, until you've settled down.
It's hard to go away alone and leave old chums behind—
It's hard to travel steerage when your tastes are more refined—
To reach a place when times are bad, and to be stranded there,
No money in your pocket nor a decent rag to wear.
But to be forced from that fond clasp, from that last clinging kiss—
By poverty! There is on earth no harder thing than this.