Short Poems

Arthur O'Bower has broken his bands,
And he's come roaring owre the lands;
The King o' Scots, and a' his power
Canna turn Arthur O'Bower.

A RISE , O soul, and gird thee up anew,
Though the black camel Death kneel at thy gate;
No beggar thou that thou for alms shouldst sue;
Be the proud captain still of thine own fate!

An Argentine gaucho named Bruno
Declared, "There is one thing I do know:
A woman is fine
And a boy is divine,
But a llama is numero uno.'

There was an old person whose mirth,
Induced him to leap from the earth;
But in leaping too quick, he exclaimed, " I'm too sick
To leap any more from the earth."

Apricot about to fade, raindrops quiet now;
filling the paths, patches of moss,
the green has stained my clothes.
The wind is strong—I cannot get the little window shut:
flower petals and my poems
go flying through the air.

Amidst bamboo, gate pulled shut,
living like a monk;
white bean-flowers thinning out
after gusts of rain.
My couch engulfed by steam from tea,
I happen to nod off
and wake to find the book I was reading
still clutched tightly in my hand.

Along the river most homes here
belong to fishermen;
willow embankments and chestnut ponds
are scattered everywhere.
But it's most beautiful after sunset
when the wind calms down:
a riverside of trees all red
and people selling perch.

The appointed winners in a long-stretch'd game;
The course of Time and nations — Egypt, India, Greece and Rome;
The past entire, with all its heroes, histories, arts, experiments,
Its store of songs, inventions, voyages, teachers, books,
Garner'd for now and thee — To think of it!
The heirdom all converged in thee!

Amusing myself with rocks, I sit peering into the valley;
searching for blossoms, I wander round and round the temple.
Again and again I hear the birds talking,
and here and there the voice of the stream.

Anthea bade me tye her shooe;
I did; and kist the Instep too:
And would have kist unto her knee,
Had not her Blush rebuked me.