Short Poems

To my house has come the Lord, the Sat Guru.
My courtyard glitters: A wealth of bliss has he brought.
All my pains, dear friend, have vanished — I to-day have found my Love.
Blessed be Bidhata for the lines he has written, which have brightened all my lot.
Tender words and boundless comforts showered on me from the Kalpa-tree's shade.
Blessed be she who bore Sant like this: may her happiness be great.
Prayer and penance, rites and duties, these are endless: With the tongue alone the Name is sung.

Is it raining on the river all the way to Ch'u? —
The evening bell comes to us from Nan-king.
Your wet sail drags and is loath to be going
And shadowy birds are flying slow.
We cannot see the deep ocean-gate —
Only the boughs at Pu-kou, newly dripping.
Likewise, because of our great love,
There are threads of water on our faces.

In the heaven, O Loved One, sound thy flute again.
From the whirlpool's depth let no eddies swirl: to my eyes apply the salve.
The flute, that charmed gods, men and munis, make me to hear thy flute, O Loved One.
Come, bring the key, undo the lock: reveal to me thy beauteous form.
Dharm Das prays with clasped hands: Set me behind thy lotus feet.

The sun shines on the Peak of Incense Burner,
And the purple vapor rises like smoke.
Lo, the long stream of water hung up yonder!
Straight down three thousand chi the flying torrent leaps,
As if the Silver River were falling from the ninth heaven.

Thou art Sat Guru and I thy servant.
If any beat me or abuse, to thee for justice will I cry.
In sleep, in waking Thou art my defender: I serve none else but Thee.
Thou art Creator, the mystic music: shed abroad, O Lord, Thy ambrosial love.
How may I make my prayer to Thee? Dharm Das has grasped Thy feet.

In the June rains, as if by stealth,
One night the moon shines through the pines.

Round a turn of the Ch'in Fortress winds the Wêi River,
And Yellow Mountain foot-hills enclose the Court of China;
Past the South Gate willows comes the Car of Many Bells
On the upper Palace-Garden Road — a solid length of blossom:
A Forbidden City roof holds two phaenixes in cloud;
The foliage of spring shelters multitudes from rain;
And now, when the heavens are propitious for action,
Here is our Emperor ready — no wasteful wanderer.

A show'r in spring, where an umbrella
And rain-coat walk along conversing.

The kite flies in the self-same spot
Of sky where yesterday it flew.

The snail-man, hurrying along,
Saw not the city which he traversed.