Short Poems

You get a grip
when you
let go.

My wise lover is enchanted;
whence gone, how'd I know'
He is Yousef, himself is Zulaikhah;
a lover he is undo his self, my dear.

My two eyes may seem to be dead like the dead rivers of Bangladesh
where there is no sign of water now.
But, o my Love,
within my heart there flows a sweet river very dark and deep;
the tide of pain rises there 24 hours every day.

I WROTE down my troubles every day;
And after a few short years,
When I turned to the heart-aches passed away,
I read them with smiles, not tears.

My throat is sore, my voice is hoarse with skriking,
My rests are sighs, deep from the heart’s root fetched;
My song runs all on sharps, and with oft striking
Time on my breast, I shrink with hands outstretched;
Thus still, and still I sing, and ne’er am linning,
For still the close points to my first beginning.

My thoughts are as a flock of sheep
Upon a windy wold,
At eventide they homeward creep
To shelter from the cold;
And when I lay me down to sleep
They rest within the fold.

My sister Laura's bigger than me
And lifts me up quite easily.
I can't lift her, I've tried and tried;
She must have something heavy inside.

My partridge, wand'rer from the hills forlorn,
Thy house, light-woven of the willow-bough
No more, thou patient one, shall know thee now;
And in the radiance of the bright-eyed morn

I feel that I'm possess'd of nought,
Saving the free unfetterd thought
Which from my bosom seeks to flow,
And each propitious passing hour
That suffers me in all its power
A loving fate with truth to know.

My northern blood exults to face
The rapture of this rough embrace,
Glowing in every vein to feel
The cordial caress of steel
From spear-blue air and sword-blue sea,
Armour of England's liberty.