English

1

He is gone,
Gone somewhere west of Feng-ch'eng.
A thin rain dampens my red sleeves,
New weeds lie as deep as my jade brows are low,
The butterfly is most bewildered.

2

He is gone,
Gone from the Isle of Egrets.
Lotus blossoms turn to emerald remorse,
Willow catkins rise to join the zither's grief,
Behind the brocade curtain — the early autumn startles.

3

He is gone,
Gone from the painted chamber tower.
No longer lustrous and beautiful, I sit idle,

BROME, BROME ON HILL

Brome, brome on hill,
The gentle brome on hill, hill,
Brome, brome on Hive hill,
The gentle brome on Hive hill,
The brome stands on Hive hill-a.

BROME, BROME ON HILL

Brome, brome on hill,
The gentle brome on hill, hill,
Brome, brome on Hive hill,
The gentle brome on Hive hill,
The brome stands on Hive hill-a.

A BROKEN wagon wheel that rots away beside the river,
A sunken grave that dimples on the bluff above the trail;
The larks call, the wind sweeps, the prairie grasses quiver
And sing a wistful roving song of hoof and wheel and sail,
Pioneers, pioneers, you trailed it on to glory,
Across the circling deserts to the mountains blue and dim.
New England was a night camp; Old England was a story,
The new home, the true home, lay beyond the rim.

You fretted at the old hearth, the kettle and the cricket,

If someone came what would I do
dozing here with my clothes on
completely at ease, feeling frisky
human life? What can you say
rank is above me a bit
wealth, I don't need it
haha, you laugh
I laugh, haha.

out of chaos,
Chang Kuo-lao popped
riding his white ass backwards
through illusion
born in purple clouds
coiled in ruby mist
every night he folded that old ass up
swallowed it
to sleep in bliss.

The broad beach
Sea wind and the sea's irregular rhythm,
Great dunes with their pale grass, and on the beach
Driftwood, tangle of bones, an occasional shell,
Now coarse, now carven and delicate — whorls of time
Stranded in space, deaf ears listening
To lost time, old oceanic secrets.
Along the water's edge, in pattern casual
As the pattern of the stars, the pin-point air holes
Left by the sand flea under the receding spume,
Wink and blink out again. A gull drifts over,
Wide wings crucified against the sky —

Broad bars of sunset-slanted gold
Are laid along the field, and here
The silence sings, as if some old
Refrain, that once rang long and clear,
Came softly, stealing to the ear
Without the aid of sound. The rill
Is voiceless, and the grass is sere,
But beauty's soul abideth still.

Trance-like, the mellow air doth hold
The sorrow of the passing year;
The heart of Nature groweth cold,

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
He is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh and blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church needs never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The 'potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruits of pomegranate and peach

Small as he is he can nimbly dance
From fold of collar to waist of pants.
The prick of a lance
Is this creature's bite,
And he can elude the keenest sight.
How can one capture a creature who
With a somersault can vanish from view?!

Britons grown big with pride
And wanton case,
And tyranny beside,
They sought to please
Their craving appetite,
They strove with all their might.
They vow'd to rise and fight,
To make us bow.

The plan they laid was deep
Even like hell;
With sympathy I weep,
While here I tell
Of that base murderous brood,
Void of the fear of God,
Who came to spill our blood
In our own land.

They bid their armies sail
Though billows roar,
And take the first fair gale
For Boston's shore;