The Old Violin

Though tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust,
Like some great thought on a forgotten page;
The soul of music cannot fade or rust, —
The voice within it stronger grows with age;
Its strings and bow are only trifling things —
A master-touch! — its sweet soul wakes and sings.

Content

Though singing but the shy and sweet
Untrod by multitudes of feet,
Songs bounded by the brook and wheat,
— I have not failed in this,
The only lure my woodland note,
To win all England's whitest throat!
O bards in gold and fire who wrote,
— Be yours all other bliss!

To Stella

Thou wert the morning star among the living
Ere thy fair light had fled;--
Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead.
Language has not the power to speak what love indites;
The Soul lies buried in the ink that writes.

Philocles

This noiseless ball and top so round,
This rattle with its lively sound,
These bones with which he loved to play,
Companions of his childhood's day,
To Hermes, if the god they please,
An offering from Philocles.

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.

This white sedge hat came from Kyoto yesterday

This white sedge hat came from Kyoto yesterday.
Why shouldn't I lend my man this white sedge hat?
Lean on me, I'll let you wear this Kyoto-curved hat.
If you lean on me, I'll let you wear this lovely little sedge hat.
You're too young — I won't let you row in the swampy paddies without a hat!

Pages

Subscribe to RSS - Short Poems