Short Poems

Acacias' gold and red are falling.
Falling at dusk, in the autumn light.
One-sided love, light flannel, my melancholy,
as I walk by the water in " Towboat. "
Your soft sighs are falling.
Acacias' gold and red are falling.

Lady, those cherries plenty,
Which grow on your lips dainty,
Ere long will fade and languish.
Then now, while yet they last them,
O let me pull and taste them.

Adam scrivain, if evere it thee bifalle
Boece or Troilus for to writen newe,
Under thy longe lokkes thou moste have the scalle,
But after my making thou write more trewe,
So ofte a day I moot thy werk renewe,
It to correcte, and eek to rubbe and scrape;
And al is thurgh thy necligence and rape.

Above the place where children play
A window opens, far away,
For God to hear the happy noise
Made by His little girls and boys.

. . . about the cool water
the wind sounds through sprays
of apple, and from the quivering leaves
slumber pours down . . .

About an excavation
a flock of bright red lanterns

The reed-roof'd Village, still bepatch'd with snow
Smok'd in the sun-thaw.

The Sun-shine lies on the cottage-wall,
Ashining thro' the snow--

Behind the thin
Grey cloud that cover'd but not hid the sky
The round full moon look'd small.--

'Twas sweet to know it only possible--
Some wishes cross'd my mind & dimly cheer'd it--
And one or two poor melancholy Pleasures[;]
In these, the pale unwarming light of Hope
Silv'ring their flimsy wing flew silent by,
Moths in the Moonlight--