Short Poems

Three Graces; and the mother were a Grace,
But for profounder meaning in her face.

On the horizon the peaks assembled;
And as I looked,
The march of the mountains began.
As they marched, they sang,
"Aye! We come! We come!"

On the horizon the peaks assembled;
And as I looked,
The march of the mountains began.
As they marched, they sang,
"Aye! We come! We come!"

Dark interpretation of the water: stars in the mouth of the night,

Sighing in black pillows the rosy shadow of man,

Redness of autumn, the rustling of the maple in the old park,

Chamber concerts which fade on decayed stairs.

We shall not ever meet them bearded in heaven
Nor sunning themselves among the bald of hell;
If anywhere, in the deserted schoolyard at twilight,
forming a ring, perhaps, or joining hands
In games whose very names we have forgotten.
Come memory, let us seek them there in the shadows.

On the cow shed
A hard winter rain;
Cock crowing.

This House and Inhabitants both well agree,
And resemble each other as near can be;
One half is decay'd, and in want of a Prop,
The other new built, but not finish'd a-top.

His father's sense, his mother's grace,
In him I hope, will always fit so;
With--still to keep him in good case--
The health and appetite of Rizzo.

Let it no longer be a forlorn hope
To wash an Ethiop :
He's wash'd, his gloomy skin a peaceful shade
For his white soul is made :
And now, I doubt not, the Eternal Dove
A black-faced house will love.

Foremost of all on battle's fiery steep
Here VERTUE fell, and here he sleeps his sleep.
A fairer name no Roman ever gave
To stand sole monument on Valour's grave.