Short Poems

To meet, to know, to love--and then to part,
Is the sad tale of many a human heart.

I know 'tis but a Dream, yet feel more anguish
Than if 'twere Truth. It has been often so:
Must I die under it? Is no one near?
Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

Hun har saa skønt fra Naturen
en Holdning i store Drag,
at man vilde kysse Konturen
af hendes For og bag,
selvom hun laa forstenet
og kold i en Sarkofag.

Another Irish landlord gone to grass,
Slain by the bullets of the tenant class!
Pray, good agrarians, what wrong requires
Such foul redress? Between you and the squires
All Ireland's parted with an even hand
For you have all the ire, they all the land.

A cook adorned with paper cap,
Or waiter with a tray,
May be a worthy kind of chap
In his way,
But when we want one for Recorder,
Then, Mr. Walton, take our order.

'Lothario is very low,'
So all the doctors tell.
Nay, nay, not so-he will be, though,
If ever he get well.

I saw the devil-he was working free:
A customs-house he builded by the sea.
'Why do you this?' The devil raised his head;
'Churches and courts I've built enough,' he said.

'Let music flourish!' So he said and died.
Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins:
The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide,
Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide
The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins!

With much ado you fail to tell
The requisites for writing well;
But, what bad writing is, you quite
Have proved by every line you write.

On the first day the priest
Could find no heart in the beast,
And two on the second day.