Short Poems

How long ago Hector took off his plume,
Not wanting that his little son should cry,
Then kissed his sad Andromache goodbye —
And now we three in Euston waiting-room.

The Dharma, like an oyster
washed atop a high cliff:
even waves crashing against
the reef-bound coast may reach it
but cannot wash it away.

Horse and hattock
Horse and go
Horse and pelatis, ho, ho!

Hopes grimly banished from the heart
Are the sad exiles that depart
To melancholy's rayless goal, —
A bleak Siberia of the soul.

If what the Curious have observ'd be true,
That the Cameleon will assume the Hue
Of all the Objects that approach its Touch;
No Wonder then, that the Amours of such
Whose Taste betrays them to a close Embrace
With the dark Beauties of the Sable Race,
(Stain'd with the Tincture of the Sooty Sin,)
Imbibe the Blackness of their Charmer's Skin.

Hoddley, poddley, puddle and fogs,
Cats are to marry the poodle dogs;
Cats in blue jackets and dogs in red hats,
What will become of the mice and the rats?

Ho, boys, ho! for California, O!
There's plenty of gold, so I've been told,
On the banks of the Sacramento.

Ho, boys, ho! for California, O!
There's plenty of bones, so I've been told,
On the banks of the Sacramento.

In spring, the cherry blossoms,
in summer, the cuckoo's song,
in autumn, the moon shining,
in winter, the frozen snow:
how pure and clear are the seasons!

When I gaze off
toward your skies,
unable to bear the longing,
the spring rain falls,
parting the mist.

— — Another.
— Anne Bradstreate.
Artes bred neat An .