Short Poems

Rub-a-dub-dub,
Three men in a tub,
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker,
The candlestick-maker,
They all jumped out of a rotton potato,
'Twas enough to make a man stare.

Round about, round about,
Maggotty pie;
My father loves good ale,

Roses, roses, roses,
Creamy, fragrant, dewy!
See the rainbow shower!
Was there e'er so sweet a flower?
I'm the rose-nymph, June they call me.
Sunset's blush is not more fair
Than the gift of bloom so rare,
Mortal, that I bring to thee!

Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago,
When I was in my June, you in your May,
Two words, " My Rose" set all your face aglow,
And now that I am white, and you are gray,
That blush of fifty years ago, my dear,
Blooms in the Past, but close to me today
As this red rose, which on our terrace here
Glows in the blue of fifty miles away.

The rose and gold and violet
Were fairest when the sun had set;
So when life's noblest battle's won,
Peace comes at setting of the sun.

The rooks are alive
On the tops of the trees;
They look like a hive
Of jolly black bees;
They all squawk together,
And loud is their squawking —
It must be the weather
That sets them a-talking.

There was an Old Man in a marsh,
Whose manners were futile and harsh;
He sat on a log, and sang songs to a frog,
That instructive Old Man in a marsh.

Rob me and maim me! Why, man, take such pains
On your bare heath to hang yourself in chains?

The river is calm, the moon reflected in its waters.
The mountain is quiet, autumn filling its pavilions.
He plays for a while and then he stops:
music never meant for people to hear.

River bank—the evening tides have started to ebb.
Wind-swept woods—frosty leaves are thinning out.
I lean on my cane; the bramble gate is quiet.
I long for my friend; mountain colors—dim and faint.