Short Poems

Now goth son under wod,
Me rueth, Mary, thy fair rode.
Now goth son under tree,
Me rueth, Mary, thy son and thee.

Now Europe 's balanc'd, neither Side prevails
For nothing's left in either of the Scales.

November is a spinner
Spinning in the mist,
Weaving such a lovely web
Of gold and amethyst.
In among the shadows
She spins till close of day,
Then quietly she folds her hands
And puts her work away.

Where the soft drifts lie
Of fallen blossoms, dying,
Did one flutter now,
From earth to its own brown bough?
Ah, no! 'twas a butterfly!
Like fragile blossom lying.

My star, star-gazing?--if only I could be
The sky, with all those eyes to stare at you!

My soul, my pleasant soul and witty,
The guest and consort of my body,
Into what place now all alone
Naked and sad wilt thou be gone?
No mirth, no wit, as heretofore,
Nor Jests wilt thou afford me more.

My life shall touch a dozen lives
Before this day is done,
Leave countless marks of good or ill,
E'er sets the evening sun.
This, the wish I always wish,
The prayer I always pray;
Lord, may my life help others lives,
It touches by the way.

My lefe is faren in a lond--
Alas! why is she so?
And I am so sore bound
I may nat com her to.
She hath my hert in hold,
Where-ever she ride or go,
With trew love a thousandfold.

My girl, thou gazest much
upon the golden skies:
Would I were Heaven! I would behold
thee with all mine eyes.

My eyes are on a butterfly
terror lashes my songs

— Who are you?
— A spear at a venture
a god that lives without prayer.