Short Poems

From a far mountain creeping down
Music floats up from the town
As we nearer come
We hear only noise & hum

The husband has the nearest acres
The poet has the far

Nature will not lose
In any ends she doth propose
But if thou thy debt decline
Will mulct thee with a fine
If thou refuse to bring forth men

Stout Sparta shrined the god of Laughter
In a niche below the rafter,
Visible from every seat
Where the young men carve their meat.

And the best gift of God
Is the love of superior souls

The Archangel Hope
Looks to the azure cope
Waits through dark ages for the morn
Defeated day by day but unto victory born

Hold of the Maker, not the made,
Sit with the Cause, or grim or glad.

I have supped with the gods tonight
Shall I come under wooden roofs?
As I walked on the hills
The great stars did not shine aloof
But they hurried down from their deep abodes
And hemmed me in their glittering troop

In this sour world, o summerwind
Who taught thee sweet to blow
Who should not love me, summerwind,
If thou canst flatter so

There is no evil but can speak,
If the wheel want oil t'will creak.