Short Poems

Ghost I house
In this old flat—
Your outpost—
My aftermath

The news you were gone, Heracleitus, brought me to tears:
I remembered how many twilights we'd worn out together,
talking the sun to his rest. And now, I suppose,
you are nothing but dust, old friend, in your home far away.
But your nightingales are singing, too quick for the touch
even of death who robs us of everything.

Her var end Naturen samlet,
Fuld af Friskhed og af Aand,
Konsten havde end ei famlet
Paa den med sin matte Haand.

I have forgotten her face;
Only her two eyes yet float into my eyes.
Still those two eyes make me mad
and make me love her blindly.

'Tis woman rules the whole world still,
Though faults the critics say she has;
She smiles her smile and works her will-
'Tis just a little way she has.

The flowers on her grave scarce breathe,
So sweet a flower lies hid beneath;
As if they feared their growth might stir
The sleepy earth that covers her.

This man's desire; that other's hopeless end;
A third's capricious tyrant: and my friend.

Friends are to friends as lesser gods, while they
Honour and service to each other pay:
But when a dark cloud comes, grudge not to lend
Thy head, thy heart, thy fortune to thy friend

Hedge, that divides the lovely
Garden, and myself from me,
Never in you so fair a rose I see
As she who is my lady,
Loving, sweet and holy:
Who as I stretch my hand to you
Presses it, so softly, too.

Heat waves shimmering
one or two inches
above the dead grass.