Short Poems

That clouds have no intent
is perhaps false and unreliable.
Floating in midair,
freely moving,
For what reason do they cover
the bright light of day?

Rough clouds gather around the valley
where the snow still lies.
Where is the welcoming plum,
at what place does it bloom?
I have lost my way, alone,
in the setting sun.

The wind that melted the spring hills
came and went without trace.
I wish I could bring it back
and blow it over my head.
Would I could melt the white hair
grown under my ears.

Let's mill grain with a rattle hiyae
Let's cook coarse rice hiyae
And offer it to father and mother hiyahae
If any remains I'll eat it hiyahae .

We have come, have come, have come,
How sad, we have come!
Sad are the living beings,
We have come to garner merit.

The wind frightens my dog, but I bathe in it,
Sound, rush, scent of the spring fields.

My dog's hairs are blown like feathers askew,
My coat's a demon, torturing like life.

(C IMETIÈRE M ONTPARNASSE )

Sweetheart , is this the last of all our posies
And little festivals, my flowers are they
But white and wistful ghosts of gayer roses
Shut with you in this grim garden? Not to-day,
Ah! no! come out with me before the grey gate closes
It is your fête and here is your bouquet!

Where the gray bushes by the gray sea grow,
— Where the gray islands lie,
Naked and bare to all the winds that blow,
— Under the dim gray sky —
The very flowers are gray, and dare not show
— The blue we know the little harebell by.

— One morning early, as I woke, I felt
Love round me and within me — so I knelt
— Not praying nor thanksgiving, only sure
— That He Who feeds the raven and the dove,
— Would let me hear the secret song of love,
And bless me as He blessed His happy poor.

I HAVE more sorrow, dearest, in thy love
— Than ever I knew happiness thereby.
Joy was the promise, out of reach — above.
— The sorrow is fulfilment — and I die.