Short Poems

The calabash wherein she served my food,
Was smooth and polished as sandalwood:
Fish, as white as the foam of the sea,
Peppered, and golden fried for me.
She brought palm wine that carelessly slips
From the sleeping palm tree's honeyed lips.
But who can guess, or even surmise
The countless things she served with her eyes?

Button to chin
When October comes in;
Cast not a clout
Till May be out.

Bury him deep. So damned a work should lie
Nearer the Devil than man. Make him a bed
Beneath some lock-jawed hell, that never yawns
With earthquake or eruption; and so deep
That he may hear the devil and his wife
In bed, talking secrets.

Gateway buried deep in flowers —
Happy times bygone a mere dream.
The setting sun wordless, swallows return with a mournful air;
Curtain-hooks quivering where a slender hand's touch has left its perfume.
Fallen catkins mutely shed tears for the departing spring;
Moving clouds cast shadows to cover up the moon's bashfulness.
The east wind toward evening chills more than the bleakness of autumn.

Brave and high-souled Pilgrims, you who knew no fears,
How your words of thankfulness go ringing down the years;
May we follow after; like you, work and pray,
And with hearts of thankfulness keep Thanksgiving Day.

The boys of Tyre are beautiful,
But Myiscus is a sun
Whose blazing forth extinguishes the stars.

With clothes shaken out at Pure Sound Pavilion,
Pines and cassias singing softly in the breeze,
I sit and face the great peak of Mount Omei,
As clouds disperse, revealing the remaining snow.

To the audience hall the worthy banished minister was recalled;
Master Chia's talents were matchless in the world.
Alas, in vain did the Emperor move his seat forward at midnight —
Instead of asking about the people, he asked about the gods!

" What is there in the mountains? " you ask —
Many a white cloud on mountain peaks.

But these are pleasures for me alone,
I can't take and send them to my Prince.

Reader .
Within this Church Sir Philip Sidney lies,
Nor is it fit that I should more acquaint,
Left superstition rise,
And Men adore,
Souldiers, their Martyr; Lovers, their Saint.