Short Poems

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

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

Thou art like the bird that alights and sings
Though the frail spray bends—for he knows he has wings.

I've found a port. Hope—Fortune—Farewell ye!
Cheat others now. Enough ye've cheated me.

Tomorrow is the marriage day
Of Mopsus and fair Philida.
Come shepherds, bring your garlands gay.

O do not weep, fair Bellamour,
Though he be gone there's many more.
For love hath many loves in store.

The sun's gone dim, and
The moon's turned black;
For I loved him, and
He didn't love back.

Two or three visits, and two or three bows,
Two or three civil things, two or three vows,
Two or three kisses, with two or three sighs,
Two or three Jesus's - and let me dies-
Two or three squeezes, and two or three towses,
With two or three thousand pound lost at their houses,
Can never fail cuckolding two or three spouses.

The steam hammer pounds with a regularity on steel I should envy.
Neither the hammer nor the steel seems to be suffering from this
terrible meeting between them, proving something vaguely pointed,
that some things must be done, regardless of cost, and finally the
cost too is absorbed in the doing that has become a ritual between
two fated opponents.

Tro paa Ingen, ei Dig selv
Godt Humeur Du prise!
„Lystig hen ad Livets Elv!"
Være din Devise.

“'TWAS thus, thus is, and thus shall be:
The Beautiful—the Good—
Still mirror to the Human Soul
Its own intensitude!”