Short Poems

Tea bowls, incense burning — a good feeling here!
The day is long, the people, gone, the temple is closed.
Suddenly, high in the eaves, a cool wind blows,
bringing the songs of cicadas to mingle with my reading.

The day drags on, as long as a year!
Feeling bored, I put aside my books for a while.
No horses ever reach this place, beneath the pines —
I'll have to play this game of go against myself.

A fine breeze blows through the temple halls,
touches my robe;
beyond the railing, the rains of the plum season fall.
Here there is a tranquil monk to engage in conversation —
he breaks off a palm-frond to use as his chowry.

Floating threads of spider webs hang,
never swept away:
slowly, green shadows cluster on the courtyard stairs.
The yard is cool, there are few monks,
all sounds have died out;
but from time to time I hear knocking at the gate:
such is my solitude.

This little courtyard — the wind is pure,
the orange trees are blossoming,
the shadows of the walls turn as the sun crosses the sky.
After the afternoon nap, the feeling that books
have lost their flavor;
quietly, I lean against the railing, and sip my bitter tea.

10. My beloved is white and ruddy, the chiefest among ten thousand.
11. His head is as the most fine gold, his locks are bushy, and black as a raven.
12. His eyes are as the eyes of doves by the rivers of waters, washed with milk, and fitly set.
13. His cheeks are as a bed of spices, as sweet flowers: his lips like lilies, dropping sweet smelling myrrh.
14. His hands are as gold rings set with the beryl: his belly is as bright ivory overlaid with sapphires.

2. My beloved is gone down into his garden, to the beds of spices, to feed in the gardens, and to gather lilies.
3. I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine: he feedeth among the lilies.

4
1. Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes within thy locks: thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from mount Gilead.
2. Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.
3. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a pomegranate within thy locks.

DID Cytherea to the skies
From this pellucid lymph arise?
Or was it Cytherea's touch,
When bathing here, that made it such?

C HARON ! receive a family on board
Itself sufficient for thy crazy yawl;
Apollo and Diana, for a word
By me too proudly spoken, slew us all.