Short Poems

The troops brought enough suffering to the people;
now again comes the grief of red-feathered arrows!
Winds have raised waves on the distant seas,
and the tides flow in, swelling T'ai-hu Lake!
Heaven must burst from the drums and trumpets;
those killer-whales never seem to stop!
Here, the peach blossoms hide scenes of war:
do not ask for a fishing boat now!

The trappers have collected their rabbit traps,
but the way home is hard to find.
Swirling in fog, bejeweled flowers confuse them;
swaying in the wind, jade trees slant across the road.
The chariot of the Spring Emperor has been turned back;
the blossoms of late springtime are troubled.
Soaked with snow, the wine-shop banner hangs limp.
They must ask people they meet, " Where can we get a drink? "

A true young woman, yes, for midnight,
her voice fine, yes, for midnight!
If only the sun sets, her voice is good!
The May girl's voice is fine as it grows dark.
For her fine voice I'll gladly give my sword.
It's fine, sing, first-paddy maiden!

Touch but thy Lire (my Harrie) and I heare
From thee some raptures of the rare Gotire.
Then if thy voice commingle with the String
I heare in thee rare Laniere to sing;
Or curious Wilson: Tell me, canst thou be
Less then Apollo, that usurp'st such Three?
Three, unto whom the whole world give applause;
Yet their Three praises, praise but One; that's Lawes.

To safeguard man from wrongs, there nothing must
Be truer to him than a wise distrust.
And to thyself be best this sentence known:
Hear all men speak, but credit few or none.

To read my book, the virgin shy
May blush, while Brutus standeth by:
But when he's gone, read through what's writ,
And never stain a cheek for it.

O THIS is the way the baby came:
Out of the night as comes the dawn
Out of the embers as the flame;
Out of the bud the blossom on
The apple-bough that blooms the same
As in glad summers dead and gone —
With a grace and beauty none could name —
O this is the way the baby came!

Awake, he loved their voices,
And wove them into his rhyme;
And the music of their laughter
Was with him all the time.
Though he knew the tongues of nations,
And their meanings all were dear,
The prattle and lisp of a little child
Was the sweetest for him to hear.

HEREAFTER! O we need not waste
Our smiles or tears, whate'er befall:
No happiness but holds a taste
Of something sweeter, after all; —
No depth of agony but feels
Some fragment of abiding trust, —
Whatever Death unlocks or seals,
The mute beyond is just.

You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy;
You walk with a languid swing;
You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy,
And lift up your voice and sing;
The midnight moon is a friend of yours,
And a serenade your joy —
And it's only an age like mine that cures
A trouble like yours, my boy!