Short Poems

A Night in March.

Hear! how roareth the storm and the rain-swoln stream in the darkness!
Feeling both awful and sweet! Beautiful Spring, thou art near!

Mother and Child.

" Look toward heaven, my child! there happily dwelleth thy brother,
Ne'er did he vex me, and now angels have borne him away! "
" May no angel approach, nor bear me away from thy bosom,
Mother, O tell me, I pray — how may I vex thee the most? "

Burial.

Scarce in the churchyard's soil had the just man's coffin been hidden,
Ere kind heaven thereon sprinkled its silvery snow.

The Ruins.

Wanderer! thee it behoveth to sleep in the city of ruins,
So may'st thou in thy dreams grandly upbuild it again.

Achilles (2).

Far hence reigneth Achilles, a God, i' the land of the Blessed;
Waters embrace it, and thou, goddess of waters! a son!

Achilles (1).

Thou through the turmoil of battle didst pass on, alway in safety,
Oft from Scamander's stream didst thou in safety emerge;
'Twas when receiving the hand of thy bride in the temple of Concord
Thou, O hero divine, fell'st by the arrow of death.

To Apollo, the Butterfly.

God-like child of the Alps! unto these my songs be propitious!
Thou o'er the deep dark cleft flutterest, sporting in light.

Her aunswer, as prety.
Good Sir, the selfe same thing that you
aboue all things doo most esteeme:
And that in deede is present now,
and to your selfe you deerest deeme:
That doo you take it, out of doubt,
That I would chuse yet be without.

A Riddle propounded by a Gentleman to a Gentilwoman whom he loued, but was a suter, but secretly
The thing on earth you most desire,
and yet of all you lest would chuse:
That often times you doo require,
and yet I know you will refuse:
And thaThere present you may see
All this is one: what may it be?

Angrily rose the flood with a mighty murmuring sound:
The King with his guests of honour, the City and people, were drowned.
And the Magic Mere abideth until the Judgment Day . . .
Unless some knightly diver shall bring the pitcher away.