ON THE POET’S BIRTH
A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God,
Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety,
Equally claiming the sole parenthood
Of him the perfect crown of their variety.
Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell;
That always was her fate, she loved too well.
“But, many-fathered little one,” she said,
“Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough,
Here is your mother whom you brought to bed.
Acknowledge only me, be this enough,
For such as worship after shall be told
A white dove sired you or a rain of gold.”
THE TECHNIQUE OF PERFECTION
Said hermit monk to hermit monk,
“Friend, in this island anchorage
Our life has tranquilly been sunk
From pious youth to pious age,
“In such clear waves of quietness,
Such peace from argument or brawl
That one prime virtue I confess
Has never touched our hearts at all.
“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgive
But after anger or dissent?
This never-pardoning life we live
May earn God’s blackest punishment.”
His friend, resolved to find a ground
For rough dispute between the two
That mutual pardons might abound,
With cunning from his wallet drew
A curious pebble of the beach
And scowled, “This treasure is my own:”
He hoped for sharp unfriendly speech
Or angry snatching at the stone.
But honeyed words his friend outpours,
“Keep it, dear heart, you surely know
Even were it mine it still were yours,
This trifle that delights you so.”