Short Poems

Here lies John Knott:
His father was Knott before him,
He lived Knott, died Knott,
Yet underneath this stone doth lie
Knott christened, Knott begot,
And here he lies and still is Knott.

On Mr. Robert Port

Here lies hee, whom the Tyrants rage
Snatcht in a venerable age;
And here with him entomb'd do lye
Honour, and Hospitalitie.

Here lies Dr Keene, the good Bishop of Chester,
Who eat up a fat goose, but could not digest her.

Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies,
Asleep, not dead; a good man never dies.

Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accomplished.
Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on my heart?
Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,
One who has taken his pay, a stranger to tasks that are new?
Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,
Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods of the hearth?

Here costive many minutes did I strain,
Still squeezing, sweating, swearing, all in vain;
When lo! who should pop by but mother Masters,
At whose bewitching look soon stubborn arse stirs.
No more my wanton wit shall whip thy wife,
Dear, doting Dick, for O! she saved my life.

Will I ever again
seek cherry blossoms
in the royal fields of Katano?
Flowers of falling snow,
early dawn in spring.

Seeing an
image of cherry blossoms
ahead of me
I crossed one mountain after another —
white clouds on the peaks.

Her lips were so near
That — what else could I do?
You 'll be angry, I fear,
But her lips were so near —
Well, I can't make it clear,
Or explain it to you,
But — her lips were so near
That — what else could I do?

Her hair was a waving bronze and her eyes
Deep wells that might cover a brooding soul;
And who, till he weighed it, could ever surmise
That her heart was a cinder instead of a coal?