Short Poems

I

The arts are old, old as the stones
From which man carved the sphinx austere.
Deep are the days the old arts bring:
Ten thousand years of yesteryear.

An old cob swan his cygnets thus addressed:
" Stray not too far from the parental nest.
Remember you can never be as spry as is
Yon falcon with her eyrie full of eyases!"

Said Philip Sidney, buttoning his jerkin,
" Allow me, darling: you have dropped your merkin."

The bubbled baby gave an abrupt burp,
Her tiny face contorted in an irpe
(The i pronounced, perhaps, like beard not bird).
Ben Jonson only used this pleasant little word.

C HRISTLIKE is my behaviour,
Like every good believer,
I imitate the Saviour,
And cultivate a beaver.

V The Hunt Goes By

The dogs ran in the woods today,
Their note sounded from far away.
Tonight the shallow snowfall clears
The dogs' track and the deer's.

II Lucilius

Lucilius the poet has informed me,
Defending his somewhat pedantic songs,
That " Memory is the Mother of the Muses. "
May he continue making love to the mother.

At all thou frankly throwst, while, Frank , thy wife
Bars not Luke the mayn; Oteny , barre the bye.

None then should through thy beawty, Lawra , pine,
Might sweet words alone ease a love-sick heart:
But your sweet words alone, that quit so well
Hope of friendly deeds, kill the love-sick heart.

All wonders Barnzy speakes, all grosely faind:
Speake some wonder once, Barnzy , speake the truth.