Smile poems
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Spanish Women
© Robert William Service
The Spanish women don't wear slacks
Because their hips are too enormous.
'Tis true each bulbous bosom lacks
No inspiration that should warm us;
But how our ardor seems to freeze
When we behold their bulgy knees!
Cheer
© Robert William Service
It's a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass,
When even the worst is said.
There's a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer,
But better be living than dead;
The Mother
© Robert William Service
Your children grow from you apart,
Afar and still afar;
And yet it should rejoice your heart
To see how glad they are;
Courage
© Robert William Service
Not for myself I care
As forth I fare;
But for those left behind
Wae is my mind
Knowing how they will miss
My careless kiss.
The Cremation Of Sam McGee
© Robert William Service
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
If You Had A Friend
© Robert William Service
If you had a friend strong, simple, true,
Who knew your faults and who understood;
Who believed in the very best of you,
And who cared for you as a father would;
Painted Head
© John Crowe Ransom
By dark severance the apparition head
Smiles from the air a capital on no
Column or a Platonic perhaps head
On a canvas sky depending from nothing;
Train Ride
© Federico Garcia Lorca
After rain, through afterglow, the unfolding fan
of railway landscape sidled onthe pivot
of a larger arc into the green of evening;
I remembered that noon I saw a gradual bud
Lament For Ignacio Sanchez Mejias
© Federico Garcia Lorca
Tell the moon to come,
for I do not want to see the blood
of Ignacio on the sand.
When and Why
© Rabindranath Tagore
When I bring you coloured toys, my child, I understand why there
is such a play of colours on clouds, on water, and why flowers are
painted in tints-when I give coloured toys to you, my child.
When I sing to make you dance, I truly know why there is music
The Wicked Postman
© Rabindranath Tagore
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
The Unheeded Pageant
© Rabindranath Tagore
Ah, who was it coloured that little frock, my child, and covered
your sweet limbs with that little red tunic?
You have come out in the morning to play in the courtyard,
tottering and tumbling as you run.
The Source
© Rabindranath Tagore
The sleep that flits on baby's eyes-does anybody know from where
it comes? Yes, there is a rumour that it has its dwelling where,
in the fairy village among shadows of the forest dimly lit with
glow-worms, there hang two shy buds of enchantment. From there it
The Last Bargain
© Rabindranath Tagore
"Come and hire me," I cried, while in the morning I was walking on the stone-paved road.
Sword in hand, the King came in his chariot.
He held my hand and said, "I will hire you with my power."
But his power counted for nought, and he went away in his chariot.
The Journey
© Rabindranath Tagore
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs;
and the flowers were all merry by the roadside;
and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds
while we busily went on our way and paid no heed.
The Gardener XXVIII: Your Questioning Eyes
© Rabindranath Tagore
Your questioning eyes are sad. They
seek to know my meaning as the moon
would fathom the sea.
I have bared my life before your
The Gardener XXIV: Do Not Keep to Yourself
© Rabindranath Tagore
Do not keep to yourself the secret of
your heart, my friend!
Say it to me, only to me, in secret.
You who smile so gently, softly
The Gardener XVIII: When Two Sisters
© Rabindranath Tagore
When the two sisters go to fetch
water, they come to this spot and
they smile.
They must be aware of somebody
The Gardener XVI: Hands Cling to Eyes
© Rabindranath Tagore
Hands cling to hands and eyes linger
on eyes: thus begins the record of our
hearts.
It is the moonlit night of March;
The Gardener XLVI: You Left Me
© Rabindranath Tagore
You left me and went on your way.
I thought I should mourn for you
and set your solitary image in my
heart wrought in a golden song.
