Short Poems

Death's a lion.
How can you escape him?
From a flock of sheep
It 'II pick you up like a lamb.

The natural death we each night undergo
Should teach us that our passing's but a sleep,
Which we beyond the body's shadow may,
Even as a garment of the day we doff,
Put off for ever, being then no more
Nor less, indeed, than we have been before.

Tidings there are, death is in the offing,
O ignorant!, after food and drink, thou are running,
Life shall perish, Death shall prevail,
The proof of Thy going is Thy coming.

Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest.
They will place my hands like this.
It will look as though I am flying into myself.

Baudelaire considers you his brother, and Fielding calls out to you every few paragraphs as if to make sure you have not closed the book, and now I am summoning you up again, attentive ghost, dark silent figure standing in the doorway of these words.

Dear pity, how, ah! how, wouldst thou become her!
That best becometh beauty's best attiring;
Shall my desert deserve no favour from her?
But still to waste myself in deep adminring,
Like him who calls to echo to relieve him,
Still tells and hears the tale, Oh! tale that grieves him.

The Sun arises in the East,
Cloth'd in robes of blood and gold;
Swords and spears and wrath increast
All around his bosom roll'd
Crown'd with warlike fires and raging desires.

Darro givet har det Løfte:
Ved Formælingen med Xenil
Bringer den i Morgengave
Plaza Nueva og Zacatin.

Danmark kommer Bouquetten fra,
Den dufter af danske Minder;
Tør jeg vel haabe, i Afrika
At eie to unge Veninder?

Den slanke Lilie, den hvide,
Terpsichore gav Vinger paa,
Og Blomsten blev en Sylphide,
Og Verden dit Billede saae.