Dwarven Flea Market

Like a dragon quenching his thirst,
it burns the water, hissing scream of steam;
the Hoffman steam polisher interrupts my thought,
even while I shine the gleaming bracelet of gold.

In this windowless confine of the flea market, stay I must,
where the rays of sun and moon refuse to beam.
Even while those around me dream of jewelries bought,
I, a Tolkien's elf, lament amongst the dwarves of old.

Each jewelry booth, like a cave of a legend,
has a guardian dragon that fumes and hisses;
and in the Latin music shop,
beyond the row of Chinese porcelain figurines,
salsa beats the heart.

Last

Friend, whose smile has come to be
Very precious unto me,
Though I know I drank not first
Of your love’s bright fountain-burst,
Yet I grieve not for the past,
So you only love me last!

Other souls may find their joy
In the blind love of a boy:
Give me that which years have tried,
Disciplined and purified,—
Such as, braving sun and blast,
You will bring to me at last!

There are brows more fair than mine,
Eyes of more bewitching shine,
Other hearts more fit, in truth,
For the passion of your youth;
But, their transient empire past,
You will surely love me last!

Wing away your summer-time,
Find a love in every clime,
Roam in liberty and light,—
I shall never stay your flight,
For I know, when all is past
You will come to me at last!

Today

When you served me breakfast in bed this morning,
You suddenly said you loved me.
Without thinking, I unknowingly returned the gesture,
Even though I didn't know if I felt it.
By lunchtime, you were saying it again
And this time I honestly said it back.
As a matter of fact, we said it a lot,
Almost after every bite.
Then at dinner, I said, "I love you," first.
This time, you mumbled when you said it.
Maybe you still had chicken in your mouth,
But I hardly heard it clearly.
I wonder what dessert will be.
Maybe you'll skip saying anything,
And be more concerned with your cake.

We Are Seven

--A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

The world is too much with us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

A Woman’s Last Word

Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
---Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is
Shun the tree—

Where the apple reddens
Never pry---
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.

Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—

Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.

Soliloquy

The path was purpled with the petals from the Jacaranda trees
And I strolled along in shadows cast by interlocking leaves.
The breeze was lightly scented, softened by the sweetened airs;
Frangi-pani, Calla lilies, symbols of a heart's despairs,
Intermingling scents and colors, stirring senses long asleep
And memories of an Eden, memories that I ought to keep.
Sad and joyful recollections, by this beauty brought to mind,
Reawakened, reassuring that the heavens are not blind,
Helping me in understanding birth, and childhood, marriage, death,
Filling me with love and longing, glad of life and thought and breath.
Thus on a pathway flecked with glory and with fragrant scent imbued,
I bowed my head but raised my heart in pleasant solitude.