Short Poems

Love without Hope is like Breath without Air,
An impossible Joy, a ridiculous Care;
Yet Cupid, like Alchimy runs us a-ground,
In quest of Projection which never was found:
And tho' numberless Ruins around you may view,
Yet so pleasing's the Madness, their Steps you pursue.

The lingering clouds, rolling, rolling,
And the settled rain, dripping, dripping,
In the Eight Directions — the same dusk.
The level lands — one great river.
Wine I have, wine I have:
Idly I drink at the eastern window.
Longingly — I think of my friends,
But neither boat nor carriage comes.

Chuang-tzu levels all things
And reduces them to the same Monad.
But I say that even in their sameness
Difference may be found.
Although in following the promptings of their nature
They display the same tendency,
Yet it seems to me that in some ways
A phaenix is superior to a reptile!

To distant service my heart is well accustomed;
When I left home, it wasn't that which was difficult
But because I had to leave Kuei at home —
For this it was that tears filled my eyes.
Little boys ought to be daintily fed:
Mrs. Ts'ao, please see to this!
That's why I've packed and sent a silver spoon,
You will think of me and eat up your food nicely!

Little sleeping and much grieving, — the traveller
Rises at midnight and looks back towards home.
The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the shores;
The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat.
Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader,
Approaching autumn, — the nights longer and longer.
Thirty times we have slept amid mists and waves,
And still we have not reached Hang-chow!

At the western window I paused from writing rescripts;
The pines and bamboos were all buried in stillness.
The moon rose and a calm wind came;
Suddenly, it was like an evening in the hills.
And so, as I dozed, I dreamed of the South West
And thought I was staying at the Hsien-yu Temple.
When I woke and heard the dripping of the Palace clock
I still thought it the murmur of a mountain stream.

I Pratyng Parret am, to speake
some straunge thing, learne ye me:
This of my selfe I learnd to speake,
Caesar alhaile to thee.

The Swan her sweetest Notes sings as she dies,
Chief mourner at her own sad Obsequies.

My Flaccus , if thou needs wouldest crave
What wench I would, and would not have?
I loathe the too too easy field
A like with her that nere will yield.
A moderation I embrace,
And most approove the middle place,
I fancy none that wring my gutts,
Nor her that in enjoying gluts.

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare:
Hoc tantum possum dicere, non amo te.
Which he immediately rendered

I do not love you, Dr. Fell ,
But why I cannot tell;
But this I know full well,
I do not love you, Dr. Fell .