Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,

Blown in the wind — the silver river
of the Milky Way;
halfway to heaven, hibiscus flowers of jade.
The Jasper Lady, dazzling
among trees of pearl,
a white phoenix, dancing among pine trees

The village festival is really worth seeing —
mountain farmers praying for a good harvest.

Flute players, drummers burst forth from nowhere;
laughing children race after them.
Tiger masks, leopard heads swing from side to side.
Country singers, village dancers perform for the crowd.

I'd rather have one minute of this wild show
than all the nobility of kings and generals.

Blow , wind, blow! and go, mill, go!
—That the miller may grind his corn;
That the baker may take it and into rolls make it,
—And send us some hot in the morn.

Blow gently over my garden,
— Wind of the Southern sea,
In the hour that my Love cometh
— And calleth me!
My Love shall entreat me sweetly,
— With voice like the wood-pigeon;
" I am here at the gate of thy garden,
— Here in the dawn. "

Then I shall rise up swiftly
— All in the rose and gray,
And open the gate to my Lover
— At dawning of day.
He hath crowns of pain on His forehead,
— And wounds in His hands and feet;
But here mid the dews of my garden
— His rest shall be sweet.

Blow , bugles, blow, soft and sweet and low,
Sing a good-night song for them who bravely faced the foe;
— — Sing a song of truce to pain,
— — Where they sleep nor wake again,
— — 'Neath the sunshine or the rain —
Blow, bugles, blow.

Wave, banners, wave, above each hero's grave,
Fold them, O thou stainless flag that they died to save;
— — All thy stars with glory bright,
— — Bore they on through Treason's night,
— — Through the darkness to the light —
Wave, banners, wave.

Fall, blossoms, fall, over one and all,

Blow, bugle!
But call us not again to battle.
Blow, blow, but waste no mortal's breath
In summoning our lads to death.
No more shall they be driven cattle!
Their war, and ours, is now for life.

Blow, bugle!
Predict the dawn, a friendly world —
For peace our labors!
Blow valiantly, to stay our hopes.
Blow, blow, though mankind blindly gropes.
All lands shall yet be friends and neighbors.
Today, let battle flags be furled.

Blow, bugle!
The world, repentant, longs for peace,
And needs your cheering.

Light and dry,
Fit to the hand,
It's from an ancient locust.
A few blows:
Pure echoes
Penetrate pool and terrace.

Besides the mallet
The " fish-netting " of the mold
Is slick and sleek.
When you write a new poem
Perhaps you will send me a copy.

Blossoms of the plum
Gleam through fallen snow to-day.
Better let them stand!
I had gathered some for you —
But they melted in my hand.

All spring, my sorrows grew like lotus leaves,
now they wither and my autumn sadness grows.

Grief is as long and as wide as life.
I watch the autumn river. I listen to it flow.