Short Poems

He that owns wealth, in mountain, wold, or waste,
Plays master — pitches tent at his own taste;
Whilst he who lacks that which the world commends
Must pace a stranger, e'en in his own lands.

My precious life I spent considering
What I should eat in summer, wear in spring.
Vile belly! take the crust! 'tis nobler food
Than all the capons plucked in servitude.

What could he know of sky and stars, or heaven's all-hidden life,
Who did not see in his own house the knave that kissed his wife?

The man that never will declare his thought
Conceals a soul of honor or of sin.
Dost think yon silent jungle holdeth naught?
Perchance a lurking tiger sleeps therein.

Since nought avails, let me arise and leave,
Though down the way of swords I wounded crawl;
Perchance I shall attain to touch her sleeve,
And surely on her threshold dying fall.

IF OF THY MORTAL GOODS thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one, and with the dole
Buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.

Vex no man's secret soul — if that can be —
The path of life hath far too many a thorn!
Help whom thou may'st — for surely unto thee
Sharp need of help will e'er the end be borne.

Should any ask me on His form to dwell,
Helpless I say, — " He hath no parallel. "
The lovers by the loved one all are slain,
No voice can answer from the dead again.

Now, while thou hast the wondrous power of word,
Let every thought in shining grace appear;
To-morrow, when Death's messenger is here,
He will constrain thee to depart unheard.

He is no friend who in thine hour of pride
Brags of his love and calls himself thy kin.
He is a friend who hales his fellow in,
And clangs the door upon the wolf outside.