Short Poems

Haughty glass, be not so vain,
So superb in thy disdain,
Deeming that she doth adore thee
Over all the world of men!
If the splendid sun were not,
Who would give the moon a thought?
And without her face before thee,
Where would be thy beauty then?

Your gems, I take it, even in the rough,
For this rude age are more than good enough?
Too mean were lapidarian toil for you;
'Tis work we drudges may be left to do:
Poor painful slaves of our own paltry skill,
Doting uxorious on Perfection still.

Poet , thy strain, a mountain cataract, leaps
From so remote and superhuman steeps,
It never finds the valley, but midway
Hangs beautifully lost upon the day,
In iridescence lost, in vapour spent,
Yet made immortal in evanishment.

Thine eyes have not the blue of heaven,
Thy mouth no redness of the rose,
No lily seems thy breast or arm.
Ah! what a wondrous spring were here,
If in the vales and on the heights
Such lilies and such roses bloomed!
And if a heaven surrounded all
As clear, as blue as are thine eyes!

Wind passing over
lotus leaves
out on a pond—
dewdrops cascading;
in autumn,
the cooling sound
of rain coming down.

Wealth, like a Pegasus, doth runne, or Flee,
(As swift as Thought) especially from those
That nere are gladd, but when at game they bee,
Though all their Wealth thereby, in Post, they loose:
And so when Wealth away, is posted quite,
They runne away, or else play least In sight.

I find thee such: so kind, so true to mee,
That I must owe both love, and life to thee
Nor was't thy love alone, but thy desert,
That made me in this place thy name insert,
For this I say; and speake but what I know;
Thy mind and body doe such rare gifts show,
As scarce are found else-where (which used well)
The times will hardly yeeld thy paralell.

If I were wishing you, dear friend,
The crown of all my golden wishes,
It should not be that Heaven would send
Expensive raiment, dainty dishes;
Nor would I wish you towers in Spain,
Nor pearls from Ceylon or from Siam,
But every year a jolly train
Of just such friends as I am.

Harper divine! with Love's elusive fingers
Touch the strings of this soft-breathing lyre
Till, vocal as the forest, choral as the sea,
They voice the everlasting song,
Fill all the air with ecstasy of wings,
And turn the harp to music.

Through the pauses of thy fervid singing
Fell crystal sound
That thy fingers from the keys were flinging
Lightly around:
I felt the vine-like harmonies close clinging
About my soul;
And to my eyes, as fruit of their sweet bringing,
The full tear stole!