Short Poems

When, while evening gilds the west,
Golden cloud-built hills arise
And Alp on Alp appears,
I ask myself with tears,
Where, amid yon summits, lies
My longed for vale of rest?

Y or eies bewitchte my wit, y r wit bewitchte my will,
Thus w th y or eies and wit you doe bewitche me still
And yet you are no witche whose spirit is not evill,
And yet you are a witche, and yet you are no devill.
Oh witchinge eies, and wit, where wit and eies maie Reade
A witche and not a witche and yet a witche indeede.

When I am dying, lean over me tenderly, softly,
Stoop, as the yellow roses droop in the wind from the South
So I may, when I wake, if there be an Awakening,
Keep, what lulled me to sleep, the touch of your lips on my mouth.

A merry little rascal, with a saucy little way,
Who dresses like a hypocrite, in soft, religious grey.

He pilfers in the harvest fields, he steals the very best,
And monkeys with his conscience, as they're apt to do out west.

ON THE " POET'S CORNER " OF A LITERARY JOURNAL

Strange inspiration breathes o'er all who peep
Into this Corner where we Poets keep:
We sleep ourselves, and make the peepers sleep.

alas! how damning praise can be!
This man so scared of spoiling me
Shook all the honey from his pen
Dipped it in acid, and scribbled then —
" No compliments on her I'll laden
She's but a pleasant looking maiden."

Lovers 'tis said are blind — but Thirsis shews,
These Sighers lose not Eyes alone, but Nose;
Go, doting Fool — a fragrant Favourite seek,
Nor Egypt -like, adore a nauseous Leek.

FROM ANACREON

Ah, fly me not, beholding
My locks are blanched by time,
Nor yet, because your beauty
Is blooming in its prime,
Despise my fond caresses;
Behold the lilies rare,
Crowned with the red, red roses,
How excellent they are!

Think not, O master of the well-tilled field,
This earth is only thine; for after thee,
When all is sown and gathered and put by,
Comes the grave poet with creative eye,
And from these silent acres and clean plots,
Bids with his wand the fancied after-yield
A second tilth and second harvest be,
The crop of images and curious thoughts.

ON BEING RALLIED BY A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN FOR DULNESS IN CONVERSATION

Ask me not thou, can I no thought afford
Mirth to create or sadness to beguile;
Thou smil'st so sweet ere I have spoke a word,
Why should I speak a word to make thee smile?