Short Poems

Let's scatter petals on the coffin.
Let's hide the petals with a lid of sand.
Let's nail the lid with tears.

Let Kings Command, and doe the best they may,
The saucie Subjects still will beare the sway.

List! list! the sleigh bells peal across the snow;
The frost's sharp arrows touch the earth and lo!
How diamond-bright the stars do scintillate
When Night hath lit her lamps to Heaven's gate.
To the dim forest's cloistered arches go,
And seek the holly and the mistletoe;
For soon the bells of Christmas-tide will ring
To hail the Heavenly King!

The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.

Like to a Baker's oven is the grave,
Wherein the bodies of the faithful have
A setting in, and where they do remain
In hopes to rise, and to be drawn again:
Blessed are they who in the Lord are dead;
Though set like dough, they shall be drawn like bread.

As childish Cupid tried to rob a hive,
A Bee incensed stung the little Thief:
So all the short-liv'd joyes for which we strive,
None taste without the sharp allay of grief.

Let's think of eggs.
They have no legs.
Chickens come from eggs
But they have legs.
The plot thickens;
Eggs come from chickens,
But have no legs under 'em.
What a conundrum!

1. Let there be light, Lord God of Hosts! Let there be wisdom on the earth!
3. Give us the peace of vision clear To see our brothers' good our own,
Let broad humanity have birth! Let there be deeds, instead of boast!
To joy and suffer not alone: The love that casteth out all fear!
2. Within our passioned hearts instill The calm that endeth strain and strife;
4. Let woe and waste of warfare cease, That useful labor yet may build
Make us thy ministers of life; Purge us from lusts that curse and kill!

Lesbia forever on me rails.
To talk of me she never fails.
Now, hang me, but for all her art,
I find that I have gained her heart.
My proof is this: I plainly see
The case is just the same with me;
I curse her every hour sincerely,
Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly.

Last year we parted as the flowers began to bloom.
Now the flowers bloom again, and you still have not returned.
Purple grief, red sorrow — a hundred thousand kinds,
and the spring wind blows each of them into my hands.