Short Poems

My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,
And it is not life that makes me move.

We stood in the garden alone,
And not a word we spake:
But all mute things had a tone
Too terrible to mistake.

A wand of gold from the reaper's moon
Trembles up the wave of the weir:
And she that is coming, her foot is on my heart,
And her panting ghost seems near.

Ah! little Angel, child of bliss!
Can I believe that little head
That fair-hair'd head that Christ might kiss,
Will come to harm when I am dead?

How strangely crows the Gallic cock
Against the star of morning:
He wakes old England from her sleep.

Despots of Manchester, Oligarchs!
That rule as with rods of iron.
Note you what whines & hostile barks
The little Isle environ.

In all our daily war of words
Where deadly things are said & [torn ]
Are there not sure some secret [torn ]
When touch'd would make the [torn ]
One name when [torn ]

She marries the knight she loves —
And she scorns the lord she hates:
And there's dancing in the old castle hall
And dancing under the gates.

My Lady has Diana's brows,
Diana's deer-like step is hers;
A Goddess she by every sign;
Then wherefore is she not divine?
She has no ears for lovers' vows,
For lovers' vows she has no ears.

To Plimmer, Verandah and Cello,
Who shine as the green of the land,
The thanks of a crippled old fellow.
Though why one so lost in the yellow
Is noticed, he can't understand.