Short Poems

A WICKER flask with water iced inside
I send you as my gift this Christmas-tide.
You'll say perhaps it does not suit the season.
I want a summer suit: that is the reason.

Why maim your slave by cutting out
The wretch's tongue, you brute,
When all the city talks about
Your crimes — though he is mute?

Your fish won't keep in Summer-time? Why not?
You can't have tried the baths that you call hot.

You know my name, " The little feasting hall"?
Take roses, unguents, wine, and feast withal;
But gaze with me at Caesar's dome which saith,
" A God was I — and died! Forget not death."

Your glossy clothes are superfine,
You mock my old ones and abhor them;
At least, if threadbare, they're mine own,
I didn't cheat the tailor for them.

Just watch the fellow yonder stroll along!
The costliest of clothes he loves to wear,
And after him there comes a motley throng
Of clients spruce and slaves with curly hair.
His chair is gay and decked with curtains fair;
Say you the smartest dandy in the town?
Just now to buy a meal of plainest fare
He pawned his only ring for half-a-crown.

I OFFERED love — you ask for awe;
Then I'll obey you and revere;
But don't forget the ancient saw
That love will never dwell with fear.

A GUE they say! I know what his complaint is,
A case of greed suppressed and thirst unsated:
Exhibit thrushes fat and other dainties;
Red mullets too and pike are indicated;
With fine old port his thirst should be abated,
And rare liqueurs stored in their slender bottles —
The faculty have all miscalculated
Hydropathy won't cure such fevered throttles.

You took a woman off the street,
You gave her dresses rich and rare,
And yet the penitential sheet
She might with greater fitness wear.

You ask me how my farm can pay,
Since little it will bear;
It pays me thus. — 'Tis far away
And you are never there.