Short Poems

Où est Gautier, âme sans prix ?
Flaubert, bon géant chez les gnomes ?
Las ! dissipés dans le pourpris

If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.

os pade bahar par aag lage kanar mein
tum jo nahi kanar mein lutf hi kya bahar mein
us pe kare khuda raham gardish-e-rozagar mein
apni talash chodakar jo hai talash-e-yar mein
hum kaheen janevale hain daman-e-ishq chodakar
zist tere huzur men, maut tere dayar mein

Op til de vaade Øer, hvor Vinden blæser koldt,
Hvor paa Forstandens Bismer det Skjønne bliver holdt,
Hvor der er store Minder imellem Nutids Smaat,
Der flyver tidt min Tanke, men det gjør mig ei godt;
Da kommer Gift i Blodet og Hovmod i mit Sind
Og bitter er den Taare der flyder paa min Kind.

I fell asleep and dreamed that I
Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky;
Like him was lamed-another part:
His leg was crippled and my heart.
I woke in time to see my love
Conceal a letter in her glove

One lovely name adorns my song,
And, dwelling in the heart,
Forever falters at the tongue,
And trembles to depart.

One sung of thee who left the tale untold,
Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting;
Like empty cups of wrought and daedal gold,
Which mock the lips with air, when they are thirsting.

Behold a hag whom Life denies a kiss
As he rides questward in knighterrant-wise;
Only when he hath passed her is it his
To know, too late, the Fairy in disguise.

Friend, Ortho of Syracuse gives thee this charge:
Never venture out, drunk, on a wild winter's night.
I did so and died. My possessions were large;
Yet the turf that I'm clad with is strange to me quite.

The bird that feeds from off my palm
Is sleek, affectionate, and calm,
But double, to me, is worth the thrush
A-flickering in the elder-bush.