Years ago, to the winding banks of this lake in spring
I brought my son to play.
The flowers greeted his jade-white skin with smiles;
the clouds floated beside his patterned robe.
He explored the bamboo on the shore across,
and took out a boat to search for fish.
Now I come alone, grieving in my heart;
the misty moon at evening holds my sorrow.

Year after year...how many millennia of worldly affairs,
while in this cave-paradise, phoenixes danced and sang?
Each midnight, purple mists fly into rain,
dripping a stream of precious drops on rocks of gold essence.

DEPICTED AT THE HEAD OF SOME AMERICAN NEWSPAPERS

Ye sons of Sedition, how comes it to pass
That America 's typ'd by a Snake — in the grass?
Don't you think 't is a scandalous, saucy reflection,
That merits the soundest, severest correction?
New-England 's the Head, too; — New-England 's abus'd,
For the Head of the Serpent we know should be bruis'd.

In Old Jerusalem there used to be The Stone of Losses. If you lost something, and another man found it, you would meet at the stone, one on each side. You would declare, I lost my father, I lost my house, or I lost my lover and my hope. He would say, describe it, and if you could, and he held it in his hands, then he would return it. But dear, tell me, what do you own to lose? This life from clotted salt is but a gift. Did you lose your life? Describe it for me? It was a melody you must hear. It was a river you must bathe in. It was a breath you must sleep next to. The world is crowded.

The Yangtze River, autumn colors
fathomless, no limit;
as wild geese go flying past,
water splashes sky.
In the river inlets, all seventy-two,
this night of bright moonlight,
reed blossoms and maple leaves
cover the fishing boats.

X shall stand for playmates Ten;
V for Five stout stalwart men;
I for One, as I'm alive;
C for Hundred, and D for Five;
M for a Thousand soldiers true,
And L for Fifty, I'll tell you.

Would you like to sin
With Elinor Glyn
On a tiger-skin?
Or would you prefer
to err
with her
on some other fur?

Workmen eating lunch,
with a side order

Wood ducks, teals, even mallards come and stay
in Hara Pond. Don't reap the plants in it, roots and all,
so they can grow again,
so they can grow again!

Women are door-mats and have been, —
The years those mats applaud, —
They keep their men from going in
With muddy feet to God.