English

Green willows and fragrant grass by the posthouse road
Where the young man left me without a pang.
An unfinished dream at the fifth watch bell
The sorrow of parting under the blossoms in a third month rain.

Insensitive misses susceptible's bitterness,
Whose every inch turns into a thousand myriad strands.
The sky's edge, earth's corner — sometime they come to an end;
It's just this longing that is never done.

Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the pale
Of peers and princes, high in camp--at court--
He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,
Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,
Of a young people struggling to be free!
Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,
Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!
And shares the glories of its victory.
Then comes for fifty years a high romance
Of toils, reverses, sufferings, in the cause
Of man and justice, liberty and France,

" Honest — honest Iago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."
SHAKSPEARE .

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd —
Raised from the toilet to the table, — where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair, —
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie —
The genial confidante, and general spy —

BORN are we of fire
And orderly desire,
And on that day
The leaves all pray
And the stars all wait
By the smallest wooden gate
To listen to the cry
Of a woman by and by.
And they gather in the door to see his little feet
And go away and whisper there are none more sweet;
And they peep in his eyes and laugh like a lord
To see another human that is not yet bored . . .
Old men and ladies, they go that way
And very, very silly are the things they say!

There's no helping
Autumn colors slipping imperceptibly by.
Dusk descends on courtyard steps
Strewn with fallen petals and leaves.
Once more the Double Ninth Festival returns,
And I ascend the terrace pavilion
Letting fade the fragrance of dogwood.

Aroma of chrysanthemum wine
Wafting by the hall entrance;
Drizzling rain robed in evening mist.
Wild geese just come back
Honking drearily in the chill air.
Regrets untold — from year to year unchanging.

Last night there was rain with a soughing wind.
In the air was the sound of autumn,
And the screens and curtains rustled.
Again and again I turned on my pillow,
As the candlelight waned, and the clepsydra stopped dripping.
Nor could I compose myself when I sat up.

Worldly affairs simply drift away
In the wake of the running stream:
Methinks my life is but a floating dream.
Fittest to frequent —
The calm Land of Drunkenness.
Other than it, there's no path
I can bear to travel.

The bood is beabig brighdly, love;
The sdars are shidig too;
While I ab gazig dreabily,
Add thigkig, love, of you.
You caddot, oh! you caddot kdow,
By darlig, how I biss you —
(Oh, whadt a fearful cold I've got! —
Ck- tish -u! Ck-ck- tish -u!)

I'b sittig id the arbor, love,
Where you sat by by side,
Whed od that calb, autubdal dight
You said you'd be by bride.

1.

" The bonny heir, and the well-faird heir, "
And the weary heir o Linne,
Yonder he stands at his father's yetts,
And naebody bids him come in.

2.

" O see for he gangs, an see for he stands,
The weary heir o Linne.
O see for he stands on the cauld casey,
And nae an bids him come in.

3.

" But if he had been his father's heir,
Or yet the heir o Linne,

Spring is going, gone!
Having thankfully bid adieu
To the people of Loyang.
Willow tendrils quivering in the breeze
Wave good-bye;
Clustered orchids drip dew
To wet their handkerchiefs.
And she sits alone,
Knitting her moth-eyebrows.

Bone and Skin,
Two millers thin,
Would starve the town, or near it;--
But be it known
To Skin and Bone
That Flesh and Blood can't bear it.