Short Poems

The Moon came late to a lonesome bog,
And there sat Goggleky Gluck, the frog.
" My stars!" she cried, and veiled her face,
" What very grand people they have in this place!"

Love is begot by Fancy, bred
By Ignorance, by Expectation fed,
Destroy'd by Knowledge, and at best
Lost in the moment 't is possest.

Love equals swift and slow
— — And high and low —
Racer and lame —
— — The hunter and his game.

Thou that both feel'st and dost admire,
The flames shot from a painted fire,
Know Celia's image thou dost see,
Not to her self more like is she:
He that should both together view
Would judge both pictures, or both true,
But thus they differ, the best part,
Of Nature this is, that of Art.

A long white barn,
Two roofs on it,
And no door at all, at all.
A hen's egg

Long legs, crooked thighs,
Little head, and no eyes.

autumn wind —
a saucepan of curry
is downed at once

Lizzie Borden with an axe,
Hit her father forty whacks,
When she saw what she had done,
She hit her mother forty-one.

Little toe, big toe, three toes between,
All in a pointed shoe!
Never was narrower forecastle seen
Nor so little room for the crew.

The little songs of summer are all gone today.
The little insect instruments are all packed away:
The bumblebee's snare drum, the grasshopper's guitar,
The katydid's castanets — I wonder where they are.
The bullfrog's banjo, the cricket's violin,
The dragonfly's cello have ceased their merry din.
Oh, where is the orchestra? From harpist down to drummer
They've all disappeared with the passing of the summer.