Short Poems

She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores

While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.

Tu moça, eu quase velho... Entre nós dois, que horror,
Vinte anos de distância. Entre nós dois, mais nada.
E hoje, pensando em ti, pus-me a sonhar de amor
Somente por que vi por acaso, na estrada,
Sobre um muro em ruína, uma roseira em flor...

Fly, Love, aloft to heav'n and look out Fortune,
Then sweetly, sweetly, sweetly her importune,
That I from my Calisto best beloved
As you and she set down be never moved.
And, Love, to Carimel see you commend me,
Fortune for his sweet sake may chance befriend me.

Flowers of the rock facing the green sea
with veins that reminded me of other loves
glowing in the slow fine rain,
flowers of the rock, figures
that came when no one spoke and spoke to me
that let me touch them after the silence
among pine-trees, oleanders, and plane-trees.

Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower-but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, all in all,
I should know what God and man is.

Fire Fjæle er vor Pragt,
Naar vi bli'er i Graven lagt!

I know a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing.
His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish, terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to whom he may call his wares, from a pushcart.

I will read ashes for you, if you ask me.
I will look on the fire and tell you from the gray lashes
And out of the red and black tongues and stripes,
I will tell how fire comes
And how fire runs far as the sea.

Hvis i Engens Græs jeg løser dine Strømper, kysser, stormer,
skænd ej paa mig, skrig dog ikke! — Hvad der ligger mig paa Sinde
er ej det, at du er Kvinde og har jomfru-unge Former,
men at Formerne er dine, og du, heldigvis, er Kvinde.

What! you were born, you animated doll,
Within the shadow of the Capitol?
'Twas always thought (and Bancroft so assures
His trusting readers) it was reared in yours.