Short Poems

Day after day I live, deer for company,
Bright moon on the waters and clouds on the hills.
Nothing except these in the crevice of my heart —
Shall I send you a painting of autumn sound?

My eyes fixed on the mountains and my ears on the zither,
How could affairs of the world ever disturb my mind?
Though nobody knows I am full of lively spirits,
Wildly I sing out a song and then intone it alone.

I live in peace and quiet, confining myself to home;
Only the moon is invited to shine on my loneliness.
Please do not ask me how I am getting along;
There are endless misty waves and hills on hills.

The beating drum presses for my life;
I turn and see the sun is about to set.
No inn is provided by the underworld;
At whose house will I sleep tonight?

Still — all things appear.
Moving — there is nothing.
What is nothingness?
Chrysanthemums bursting in the frost.

My love is coming! I take dinner early,
run out the middle gate, to the outside gate, and sit on the step. I shield my eyes with my hand. Is he coming or not? I look at the mountain opposite. Something black and white is standing there: it must be my love.
Stockings clutched to my breast, shoes in my hand, I begin to run,
racing, rolling, faster, still faster, oblivious of dry ground or wet — for I have words of love to say. One quick look tells me all: last year's stripped flax stalks have deceived me.
Luckily

People, kind people, please buy my powder and rouge.
Vendor, good vendor, I'll buy, if your wares are fine.
How fine my wares are I cannot say, but once rubbed on, you'll have an allure you hadn't before.
If your claims,
vendor, are true, five, six large measures is what I'll buy, even if I have to sell my old underwear.

One by one I've gathered up my feelings of love;
I've measured them, bagged them.
They're loaded now on the straight back of a fine strong horse.
Hey, lad,
give her the whip; send them off to my love.

Girl, don't be so haughty;
don't boast of your beauty.
Have you never seen the wild chrysanthemums that bloom on the hill behind your house?
One touch of
Ninth- or tenth-month frost and they become kindling for the fire.

What is love, what is it?
Is it round, is it square?
Is it long, is it short?
More than an inch, more than a yard?
It seems of no great length,
but somehow I don't know where it ends.