Thy soul
Grown delicate with satieties,
Atthis.
O Atthis,
I long for thy lips.
I long for thy narrow breasts,
Thou restless, ungathered.

Thy sooty Godhead, I desire
Still to be ready with thy fire:
That sho'd my Booke despised be,
Acceptance it might find of thee.

Quhat is this lyfe bot ane straucht way to deid,
Quhilk hes a tyme to pas and nane to duell,
A slyding quheill ws lent to seik remeid,
A fre chois gevin to paradice or hell,
A pray to deid, quhome vane is to repell,
A schoirt torment for infineit glaidnes,
Als schort ane ioy for lestand hevynes.

Thunder in the southern mountains, the third month of the year:
it shakes the darkness by the window at night.
When I rise in the morning, I hear an old farmer
say, " This is an omen of a good harvest this year! "

Throughout the day our sweet bells chime
The hours of the fairy time.
At night with music soft and deep,
We lull a drowsy world to sleep.

Through love to light! Oh wonderful the way
That leads from darkness to the perfect day!
From darkness and from sorrow of the night
To morning that comes singing o'er the sea.
Through love to light! Through light, O God, to thee,
Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light!

Three years ago I left these city walls;
my windblown hair now is touched with frost.
In poverty, much has turned out wrong;
unskilled I stand, my back turned to the times.
Bird prints left on sand — news from the battlefield
where oceans of dust smell of dragon blood.
But my solitary poet's heart lives on:
brush and inkstone are always by my side.

Three secrets that never were said:
The stir of the sap in the spring,
The desire of a man to a maid,
The urge of a poet to sing.

Three little chickens
And one little worm,
Oh what a tug-of-war!
And each little chick
Thinks he knows very well
What fat little worms are for.

Three blind Mice, three blind Mice,
Dame Julian, Dame Julian,
The Miller and his merry old wife,
She scrap'd her tripe, lick thou the knife.