Short Poems

Of vain regret the heaviest yoke,
Whene'er we think upon our dead,
Is memory that we never spoke
The word of love we might have said;
That never once, in all the days
When Fate was hard and life was drear,
We thought to sound the note of praise,
Or speak the word of hope and cheer.

E'en in the Palace,
Where shadows deep are lying,
Hot are the shadows;
What mountain's sun-baked path-way
Now toils my Royal Husband?

Warm by the braiser
Of kiri-wood I'm sitting,
Yet am I thinking —
How cold within his cottage
The poor man feels the wind blow.

The moon, that shineth
On my hedge in fragrant flower,
As brightly shineth
On the fence of rustic rails
Near some humble cottage-door.

In sunshine's brightness,
Or the gloom of cloudy days,
My only question: —
How, o'er hard or easy ways,
Fare the people, my people?

Swiftly pass the hours,
While unheeding still I sit
Late into the night,
Talking of the men who died
Bravely for their country-side.

In peace remember
That of old the gods did rule
With bow and arrow;
And the noble arts of war
Cherish still in honor high.

The lustreless gem,
In its whiteness, despise not,
Forgetting the fact
That your hand the hard labor
Of its polish neglected.

Her mouth is a honey-blossom,
No doubt, as the poet sings;
But within her lips, the petals,
Lurks a cruel bee, that stings.

Like the morning sun,
In beaming brightness climbing
Up the eastern sky,
The mind of man should ever
Shine forth in cloudless splendor.