Short Poems

The Stars are old, that stood for me —
The West a little worn —
Yet newer glows the only Gold
I ever cared to earn —
Presuming on that lone result
Her infinite disdain
But vanquished her with my defeat
'Twas Victory was slain.

Spoonmeat at Bill Porter's in the Hall,
With green pomegranates, and no end of Bass.

The spruce and limber yellowhammer
In the dawn of spring and sultry summer,
In hedge or tree the hours beguiling
With notes as of one who brass is filing.

Springtime of low walls and flowery darkness:
sounds of a p'i-p'a from the neighbor's house!
She plucks faster now — this must be a new tune;
now puts down her plectrum, as if waiting for someone...
If I could see her, I think I'd fall in love;
even hearing her music, I feel close to her!
Heart-breaking, the sadness in these notes:
how could words have expressed it so well!

Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

So vile was poor Wat, such a miscreant slave,
That the worms even damn'd him when laid in his grave.
In his scull there is famine!' a starv'd reptile cries;
And his heart it is poison!' another replies.

So smooth, so sweet, so silvery, is thy voice
As, could they hear, the damned would make no noise,
But listen to thee (walking in thy chamber)
Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.

So good luck came, and on my roof did light
Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night:
Not all at once, but gently, as the trees
Are by the sunbeams tickled by degrees.

Spring is showery, flowery, bowery.
Summer: hoppy, choppy, poppy.
Autumn: wheezy, sneezy, freezy.
Winter: slippy, drippy, nippy.

From the south they come,
The birds, the warlike birds,
With sounding wings.

I wish to change myself
To the body of that swift bird.

I throw away my body in the strife.