Short Poems

Why, Rome was naked once, a bastard smudge,
Tumbled on straw, the den-fellow of whelps,
Fattened on roots, and, when athirst for milk,
He crept beneath and drank the swagging udder
Of Tyber's brave she-wolf; and Heaven's Judea
Was folded in a pannier.

Whoso ne knoweth the strength, power and myght,
Of Venus and me her lytle sonne Cupyde,
Thou Manhod shalt a myrour bene a ryght,
By us subdued for all thy great pryde,
My fyry dart perceth thy tender syde,
Now thou whiche erst despysedst children small,
Shall waxe a chylde agayne and be my thrall.

W HO'S that ringing at our door-bell?
" I'm a little black cat, and I'm not very well."
" Then rub your little nose with a little mutton-fat,
And that's the best cure for a little pussy cat."

Who would live in others' breath?
Fame deceives the dead man's trust.
Since our names are chang'd in death,
Sand I was, and now am dust.

Who sleeps by day and walks by night,
Will meet no spirit but some sprite.

South of the River, north of the River, wandering comfortless,
Remembering you, longing for you, sighing in loneliness;
Mandarin Ducks alight on the warm sand mound,
Cranes flock lazily toward forests yellowed and browned;
Faint faint in the dusk a song whispers its plea,
Moonlight lies on the wharf, somber profound
In love a disunion of ten feet is wide as a myriad li —
Listen! In home upon home the washing paddles resound!

Whig's the first letter of his odious name;
Hypocrisy's the second of the same;
Anarchy's his darling; and his aim
Rebellion, discord, mutiny, and faction;
Tom, captain of the mob in soul and action;
O'ergrown in sin, cornuted, old, in debt,
Noll's soul and Ireton's live within him yet.

Whether the weather be fine, or whether the weather be not,
Whether the weather be cold, or whether the weather be hot,
We'll weather the weather, whatever the weather,
Whether we like it or not.

Wheresoe'er I turn my view,
All is strange, yet nothing new;
Endless labour all along,
Endless labour to be wrong;
Phrase that time hath flung away,
Uncouth words in disarray,
Trick'd in antique ruff and bonnet,
Ode and elegy and sonnet.

Where are they now, the softly blooming flowers
With name unhard, unbarred, the Irises?
Their stalks are shears stuck in the hardened ground.
We named their colors, but our sights could measure
Never their colors' depths. Where are they now
With argent, purple, azure and pale gold,
And colors doubled like two stains in glass —
Light-plumed Irises, where are they now?