Short Poems

Welcome, little Robin,
With your scarlet breast,
In this winter weather
Cold must be your nest.
Hopping on the carpet,
Picking up the crumbs,
Robin knows the children
Love him when he comes.

Wee man o' leather
Gaed through the heather,
Through a rock, through a reel,
Through an auld spinning-wheel,
Through a sheep-shank bane.
Sic a man was never seen.

We are trying to carry this timber to the building.
Hallelujah, I don't know.

We will make doors and windows in that building.
Hallelujah, I don't know.

We will build it to the glory of the Lord.
Hallelujah, I don't know.

The past has been a mint
Of blood and sorrow.
That must not be
True of tomorrow.

In the dark they fell a-crying
For the dead who'd gone away,
And you could hear the drowsy wailing
Of those compelled to stay —
But when the sun rose making
All the dooryard bright and clear
The mourners got up smiling,
Happy they were here.

The voice of the last cricket
across the first frost
is one kind of good-by.
It is so thin a splinter of singing.

Good news: but if you ask me what it is, I know not;
It is a track of feet in the snow,
It is a lantern showing a path,
It is a door set open.

The axe falls on the wood in thuds, " God, God. "
The cry of the rook, " God, " answers it,
The crack of the fire on the hearth, the voice of the brook, say the same name;
All things, dog, cat, fiddle, baby,
Wind, breaker, sea, thunderclap
Repeat in a thousand languages —

There is a heart within a distant town
Who loves me more than treasure or renown
Think you it strange and wear it as a crown.

Is not the marvel here; that since the kiss
And dizzy glories of that blinding bliss
One grief has ever touched me after this.

Though pain be stark and bitter
And days in darkness creep
Not to that depth I sink me
That asks the world to weep.