Short Poems

It's raining, it's pouring,
The old man is snoring;
He went to bed and bumped his head
And couldn't get up in the morning!

Its nature is to look
both absolute and mortal
as if a boy had passed through
or the imprint of his foot
had been preserved
unchanged
under the ash of Herculaneum

It's a strange courage
you give me ancient star:

Shine alone in the sunrise
toward which you lend no part!

Itiskit, itaskit,
A green and yellow basket,
I wrote a letter to my love
And on the way I dropped it,
Dropped it, dropped it,
A little boy came along
Put it in his pocket,
Pocket, pocket.

It was running down to the great Atlantic.
I called it back to me,
But it slyly looked and said,
“I have not time to waste,”
And just went arunning running on.

It was on a cold winter's night
When poor Mary came wandering home.
And the watch-dog did howl,
And the village bell did toll,
And the wind blew across the wild moor.

It was good for the virgin mary
it was good enough for mary
it was good for the virgin mary
its good enough for me

It is true that I held Thero fair,
Apollodatus a torch of love—
not so no longer:
that light is out.
Mine now woman's love.
The delights of hirsute sex
let us leave to Welsh shepherds.

It is to a goodly child well fitting
To use disports of mirth and pleasance,
To harp, or lute, or lustily to sing,
Or in the press right mannerly to dance.
When men see a child of such governance
They say, " Glad may this child's friends be
To have a child so mannerly as he."

Apropos de Rien

I T is not fair to visit all
The blame on Eve, for Adam's fall;
The most Eve did was to display
Contributory neglige.