Short Poems

The narrow, thorny path he trod.
"Enter into My joy," said God.
The sad ascetic shook his head;
"I've lost all taste for joy," he said.

The Narrow, thorny path he trod.
“Enter into My joy,” said God.
The sad ascetic shook his head;
“I’ve lost all taste for joy,” he said.

There once was an arch Armadillo
Who built him a hut 'neath a willow;
He hadn't a bed
So he rested his head
On a young Porcupine for a pillow.

In those long periods when books vanished, when memory was the only way to record that the earth went back to the time (almost legendary) of one’s parents, when it seemed possible that cities and roads, villas, harbours and fleets, marketplaces and farms were the product of some beneficent magician, springing into being somewhere around the time of one’s birth. In those vast eras when the companionship of trees, the profound critique of flowing water and the wayside stone’s almost haughty refusal to comment seemed perfectly adequate as a guide to the perplexed.

In Africa not far south of Kitezh, only a few days journey from Ebtesum, in several rich and spacious valleys can be found the most beautiful language on earth. The sounds of this language so enchant all who hear them, the rapture is so exquisite, that every year a select band of visitors come from Ebtesum to hear this language. No one can translate what is said and words do not appear to have meaning in any normal sense of the word.

Thou hast crossed over torrents, and swung through wide-spreading ocean,--
Over the chain of the Alps dizzily bore thee the bridge,
That thou might'st see me from near, and learn to value my beauty,
Which the voice of renown spreads through the wandering world.
And now before me thou standest,--canst touch my altar so holy,--
But art thou nearer to me, or am I nearer to thee?

The ant has made herself illustrious
By constant industry industrious.
So what? Would you be calm and placid
If you were full of formic acid?

Nowhere in the organic or sensitive world ever kindles
Novelty, save in the flower, noblest creation of life.

Let us build here an exquisite friendship,
The flame, the autumn, and the green rose of love
Fought out their strife here, 'tis a place of wonder;
Where these have been, meet 'tis, the ground is holy.

The Albanians are my stock,
And all my kin live by the sword.
With ease, like falcons, these brave folk
Forge their homes within the cliffs.
This is the gift of those of Albanian stock,
They are gems cached among the crags.