Short Poems

On the third day, taking my place to cook,
Washing my hands to make the bridal soup,
I decide that not my mother-in-law
But my husband's young sister shall have the first taste.

Too young to have learned what sorrow means,
Attired for spring, she climbs to her high chamber. . . .
The new green of the street-willows is wounding her heart —
Just for a title she sent him to war.

Just as the beheading was all ready to begin,
" What was your offence? " they asked the ancient mandarin.
The mandarin smiled grimly, as on his knees he sank
" My offence? " he whispered: " Ah, my offence is — rank. "

Be cruel to poets, and don't let them think
You like their preposterous patterns in ink;
For poets write better when not overfed:
The time to praise poets is after they're dead.

If there is any kind of poetry
I haven't written,
You might tell me about it,
And I'll do some.

The blossoms say, " We hate the folks
Who come here from the theatre, "

A show'r, and skill of every sort
In things to put upon the head.

Oh! snowstorm, at whose blast the birds
Begin to cry o'er sea and hill!

The Ten Commandments
Are not really commandments,
But they are valuable

Oh! how its young ones must be waiting, —
For all too high ascends the lark!