Short Poems

Outside the town I've built this little place
beside water, stuck in sparse hedging.
The bank is curved — flowers hide the angler;
the windows, high — cranes hear chessmen move.
My bed is carried, a long way up stone steps;
I call for tea, a long time cross the stream.
Myself I savor the joy of quiet living;
no one comes here to find out how I live.

Outside the Terrace of Yellow Cranes,
the sun about to set;
in the trees of Han-yang City
confusion of cawing crows!
A lonely boat is moored for the night —
the eastbound traveler
is deeply grieved that the Yangtze River
does not flow back west.

One monk, you have dissolved phenomena;
the lone peak is occupied by your mystic incense.
Sutra-chanting purifies the bones of stone;
Buddha's face chills the luster of the lake.
Petals fall — you carry on the cross-legged posture;
clouds return — I recognize the lecture hall.
Deserted pond reflecting tonight's moon,
with gong and drum you bless the ancient king.

On the eastern seacoast lives a sick man
who calls himself mad and deluded.
He writes on walls and paints silk and paper:
surely he is more than insane.

On a rainy night, the house is desolate —
I've stopped chanting poems.
Now a firefly flies in through some crack,
as if looking for me!
He must have pitied me for having no candle or lamp,
and entered, within the gauze curtains,
to illuminate the depths of this night.

Nothing in our lives to stop us,
and we have not forgotten our love of leisure:
so we planned to sail with a boatful of wine
and stay overnight in a Buddhist temple.
But the season is not always beautiful —
the flowers in the garden have lost their petals.
The wild mountains, beyond the veil of rain:
we want to see them, but they are lost in mist.

The riddle of the world is understood
Only by him who feels that God is good;
As only he can feel who makes his love
The ladder of his faith, and climbs above
On the rounds of his best instincts; draws no line
Between mere human goodness and divine.
But judging God by what in him is best,
With a child's trust leans on a Father's breast.

Now lift me close to your face till I whisper,
What you are holding is in reality no book, nor part of a book;
It is a man, flush'd and full-blooded — it is I — So long! —
We must separate awhile — Here! take from my lips this kiss;
Whoever you are, I give it especially to you;
So long! — And I hope we shall meet again.

Pray Billy Pit explain thy rigs,
This new poll-tax of thine!
" I mean to mark the Guinea pigs
" From other common Swine."

One bite
and I'm doing a dance —