Short Poems

If my spirit yearned and my great heart burned for the feel of the open road,
If my soul were sick of the bailiwick and my back were bent with the load,
If I tasted the taint of the city's paint and I craved the meadow sweet,
If I felt the appeal of the yielding feel of the young earth under my feet,
If I longed for the free and the open sea and the salt spray on my cheek,
If I'd wishing pains for the Western plains and the wild coyote's shriek —
Should I be here writing insincere old stuff that the yearners sing

I Wonder not my Laeda farre can see,
Since for her eyes shee might an Eagle bee,
And dare the Sun; but that shee heares so well
As that shee could my private whisperings tell,
I stand amaz'd; her eares are not so long,
That they could reach my words; hence then it sprung:
Love overhearing fled to her bright eare,
Glad he had got a tale to whisper there.

Monday's child is sad of face;
Tuesday's child will lose the race;
Wednesday's child has a row to hoe;
Thursday's child is full of woe;
Friday's child has futile strife;
Saturday's child has a mournful life;
While the child that's born on the Sabbath day
Will find that life is dull and gray.

Lovely Diodorus, who cast the flame of desire upon the maidens, is caught by the bright eyes of Timarion; he is wounded by Love's bitter-sweet shaft.
I see a new miracle — bright fire burned by fire!

One beauty is all I know, my keen eye sees Myiscus only; I am blind to all the rest.
He seems to me everything. Do the eyes see thus to flatter the heart?

Myiscus, whose eyes had stabbed me, me whose breast was never wounded by Desire, said:
" I have overcome this boaster and in disdain I tread underfoot the arrogance of this staff-bearing poet! "
But I sighed and answered: " What wonder? Love humbled even Zeus on Olympus! "

Diodorus is fortunate in his youth, Heraclitus in his eyes, Dion in his voice and Uliades in his beauty.
Do you, Philocles, touch the delicate flesh of the one, look upon the second, speak to the third and so on, that you may know I am not jealous.
But if you turn your eyes upon Myiscus, do not see how beautiful he is!

Clouded vision, light obscure,
Moody glory, living death,
Fortune that cannot endure,
Fickle weeping, joy a breath,
Bitter-sweet and sweet unsure,
Peace and anger, sudden crossed,
Such is love, its trappings sure
Decked with glory for its cost.

Eyes, betrayers of the soul, hunters of new loves, ever caught in the snares of Aphrodite, you seize another Love, as if sheep should seize a wolf or a crow a scorpion or ashes be put on a glowing fire!
Do what you will. But why pour out streaming tears when you return immediately to the same fetters?
You are burned in beauty; you are consumed from below; Love is the great chef of the soul!

O wine-drinkers, receive one who escaped the sea and pirates to perish on land!
Scarcely had I put foot on land from the ship when Love, the hunter, dragged me here by force, where I saw a young man walking. My feet carry me swiftly by themselves, against my will. I am drunk but my soul is filled with fire not wine.
Strangers, help a friend a little, help me, strangers, and for the sake of the Eros of hospitality, receive me as I perish, the suppliant of friendship!