Budding her dreams and budding her bosom,
Yet, betimes, when she smiled,
I saw the heart of the Woman blossom
Red in the heart of the Child.

I'm weary — weary — let me go!
For now the pulse of life declineth;
My spirit chides its lingering flow,
For her immortal life she pineth.

I feel the chill night-shadows fall;
The sleep steals on that knows no waking;
Yet well I hear blest voices call,
And bright above the day is breaking.

Not now the purple and the gold
Of trailing clouds at sunset glowing,
These dim and fading eyes behold;
But splendors from the Godhead flowing.

'Tis not the crimson orient beam,
O'er mountain tops in beauty glancing;

Day and night
Revolve,
While my face wrinkles
And my spirit wanes,
But the sight of injustice still pains me.
One change induces another
That cannot be dealt with by tact or wit
The cycle goes on for ever.
I only fear that in a moment
Life will disperse in the wind.
I have always trodden on thin ice.
Yet no one knows!

Inscribe on your heart
Every inch of the time at sunset.
Adjust your sleeves, unsheathe a slender sword,
And look up at the passing clouds
Among them a dark stork
Raises its head and rattles its beak.
Darting aloft, it vanishes into the sky
Never again will it be heard
It is no company for the cuckoos and the crows
That circle round the Court.

The sea darkening —
the voice of a wild duck
faintly white.

Weird dances are performed in the north street
And near the river decadent songs are heard.
These flighty, leisured youths,
Enslaved by fads and fashions,
Always take a short cut
To sensual pleasure.
I see no one racing against the sun
Or turning his staff into a forest.
The recipe for a long life
Alone calms my heart.

From deep within
the peony pistils, withdrawing
regretfully, the bee.

The last rays of the setting sun,
Which once shone upon me warmly, have now gone
The wind keeps returning to strike the walls
While cold birds seek warmth in one another's breast.
Clinging to their feathers,
They fear hunger in silence.
O, men of influence
Remember to withdraw in time!
You look sad and frail
Is it because of power and fame?
I prefer to fly with jays and tits,
Not with hoary herons.
For they travel high and far,
Making the return too hard.

Early dawn —
whitefish, an inch

Take me, O my Father! take me —
Take me, save me, through thy Son;
That which thou wouldst have me, make me,
Let thy will in me be done.

Long from thee my footsteps straying,
Thorny proved the way I trod;
Weary come I now, and praying —
Take me to thy love, my God!

Fruitless years with grief recalling,
Humbly I confess my sin!
At thy feet, O Father, falling,
To thy household take me in.

Freely now to thee I proffer,
This relenting heart of mine;
Freely, life and soul I offer,