Short Poems

Pwll Cheres, the dread whirlpool of Menai,
Twisteth the waves, as if a knot should tie:
A hideous howling hollow, an abyss
Enough to scare the heart is Pwll Cheres.

Longing for them doth fade my cheek;
He was a man, and she was meek;
A lion was he, she full of glee;
He handsome was, she fair to see.
A wondrous concord here was view'd;
He was wise, and she was good;
He liberal was, she kind of mood;
To heaven he went, she him pursued.

I want to pick you
Really, I really do
You are all sugary
Puffs and puffs of cotton candy
The sky is lucky
It can taste you every day
But me? I have nothing
I wish the sky would give me just one bite.

Neither drugs nor charms nor burnings will touch a deep-lying political sore any more than a bodily one; but only right and utter change of constitution;
And they do but lose their labor who think that by any tricks of law they can get the better of those mischiefs of commerce, and see not that they hew at a hydra.

THE BOWLING GREEN

When next you lift my verse, dear colyumist,
From sweet obscurity to fame that's sweeter,
Pray quote me from the book, and never twist
My " otherwise " to " else " and spoil the metre!

Learn how to hope, to wait the proper tide —
As on the coast a bark — then part without a care;
He who knows how to wait wins victory for bride;
For life is long and art a plaything there.
But should your life prove short
And never come a tide,
Wait still, unsailing, hope is on your side
Art may be long or, else, of no import.

I cannot write the old jokes,
The cranks and wanton wiles,
Because I can't remember 'em,
And I haven't got the files.

I'm Captain Hans of the submarines,
I feed the sea with human be'n's;
I do not care about the means —
I'm in the German navy!

I with fine words wear all my life away,
And lose good purpose with the things I say;
Guide me, kind silent woman, that I give
One deed for twice ten thousand words, and so I live.

Epigram

Laying aside his Bow and Torch, a Whip
Severe Love took, and at his side a Scrip;
Then on the patient Oxen doth impose
A Yoak, and in the fertile Furrow sows:
And looking up, good weather Jove , or Thou
(Saith he) Europa's Bull shalt draw my plow.