Short Poems

The sun on Ivera
No longer shines brightly;
The voice of her music
No longer is sprightly;
No more to her maidens
The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling
O'Sullivan Bear.

Lady farewell whome I in silence serve
Woulde god thou knewest the depth of my desire
Then mought I wish though nought I can deserve
Some dropps of grace to slake my scalding fire
But sith to live alone I have decreede
Ile spare to speake, that I may spare to speede

Ladies, to this advice give heed--

In controlling men:
If at first you don't succeed,
Why, cry, cry, again.

Nothing first-hand. I'm not your Saul. No burst
Of the Unendurable Dazzlement. Never durst
Claim more than a thrilling hunch: swirled autumn air,
Moon's stealth, or ado in the leaves —
shhh!
Someone there?

KNOWS HE that never took a pinch,
Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows?
Knows he the titillating joys
Which my nose knows?
O nose, I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows;
I gaze on thee, and feel that pride
A Roman knows!

Joy is the blossom, sorrow is the fruit,
Of human life; and worms are at the root.

Just one hundred poems in this little book —
but in poetry, quantity is not quality.
Halfway through life, you still live in respectable poverty,
but at least you can work at your five-word lines.
The blandness of your style hides inner richness;
in the level places: suddenly, towering peaks!
Late at night, reading these by lamplight
a man drives off the demon of sleep.

Julia, when thy Herrick dies,
Close thou up thy Poets eyes:
And his last breath, let it be
Taken in by none but Thee.

Julia and I did lately sit
Playing for sport, at Cherry-pit:
She threw; I cast; and having thrown,
I got the Pit, and she the Stone.

Jealous girls these sometimes were,
While they lived, or lasted here:
Turned to flowers, still they be
Yellow, marked for jealousy.