Short Poems

Ever the strong, salt life, ever the dream,
Ever the pulsing force, the mystery
Of tireless Nature working 'neath the stars
Her destiny apart from human things.

Habit makes it grow easy and easier,
this peeling of veils from my heart.
One of these days I'll have the brute naked.
I, for one, want to see him.

Softly doth the sun descend
To his couch behind the hill,
Then, oh, then, I love to sit
On mossy banks beside the rill.

“Oh, give me good mothers! Yea, great, glad mothers,
Proud mothers of dozens, indeed twice ten;
Fair mothers of daughters and mothers of men,
With old-time clusters of sisters and brothers,
When grand Greeks lived like to gods, and when
Brave mothers of men, strong breasted and broad,
Did exult in fulfilling the purpose of God.”

There was a great Person of Stratton,
Who fell fast asleep with his Hat=on.
He slept for one hour,
And awoke with more power
To leave Micheldéver for Stratton.

There was an Old Man whose remorse,
Induced him to drink Caper Sauce;
For he said, ‘If mixed up with some cold claret-cup,
It will certainly soothe your remorse!’

There was an Old Man of Cashmere,
Whose movements were scroobious and queer;
Being slender and tall, he looked over a wall,
And perceived two fat ducks of Cashmere.

There was an old person whose tears
Fell fast for a series of years;
He sat on a rug, and wept into a jug
Which he very soon filled full of tears.

Where there is no Vision
The people perish
. . . Restrain your rude derision,
Where there is no Vision
When they state with such precision
The Hope they cherish.
Where there is no Vision
The people perish.

For well Thou knowest, O God most wise,
How good on earth was his gift to me.
Shall this be a little thing in thine eyes
That is greater in mine than the whole great sea?