There was a Young Lady in white,
Who looked out at the depths of the night;
But the birds of the air, filled her heart with despair,
And oppressed that Young Lady in white.

Mr. Wells, of the big cerebellum,
Uses mountains of paper (or vellum);
When his temper gets bad
And we ask, "Why so mad?"
He replies, " They won't do as I tell em!

T. S. Eliot is quite at a loss
When clubwomen bustle across
At literary teas,
Crying: — " What, if you please,
Did you mean by The Mill on the Floss? "

There was an Old Man on whose nose
Most birds of the air could repose;
— — But they all flew away
— — At the close of the day,
Which relieved that Old Man and his nose.

There was an Old Person of Hurst,
Who drank when he was not athirst;
When they said, " You'll grow fatter," he answered, " What matter?"
That globular Person of Hurst.

Spring rains weaving
eccentric brocades
across the face of the water —
will they dye all the hills green?

Small cherries sip delicately
At the edge of the wine cup
Beautiful speech floats on jasmine perfume
Like the mouth of the singer Fan Su,
The concubine of Bo Juyi,
The teeth are like white melon seeds,
And the lips like pomegranate blossoms.

Coming was an empty promise, you have gone, and left no footprint
The moonlight slants above the roof, already the fifth watch sounds
Dreams of remote partings, cries which cannot summon,
Hurrying to finish the letter, ink which will not thicken.
The light of the candle half encloses kingfishers threaded with gold
The smell of musk comes faintly through embroidered water-lilies
Young Liu complained that Fairy Hill is far
Past Fairy Mountain, range above range, ten thousand mountains rise

Not a twig or a leaf on the old tree,
Wind and frost harm it no more
A man could pass through the hole in its belly,
Ants crawl searching under its peeling bark
Its only lodger, the toadstool which dies in a morning,
The birds no longer visit in the twilight.
But its wood can still spark tinder.
It does not care yet to be only the void at its heart.

Flower in the leaves, only as heaven pleases:
From Yangtze to brook, the same roots of stone.
Red cloud of morning's shadow likenesses:
The cold water on each touches its scar.
Easy, Yang Zhu, to shed your tears:
Exile of Chu, hard to call back your ghost
The waves in the wind are restless in the evening.
I put down my oar to lodge in what man's house?