Short Poems

A streamful of flowing water,
half the village in flowers:
my old home, the southern neighbor
was a fisherman.
I'll always remember his boat coming in
filled with spring's intoxication,
clouds encaging fading sunlight,
rain hissing on the sand.

Stayed late in town, sped home in my boat,
afraid the dust had soiled my fisherman's cap.
Home again, I found there had been a storm:
torn leaves hanging from the banana trees.

Still hanging back,
the clouds, too,
this evening
seem to hesitate
before
the untrodden snow
of the plank bridge

" Stop thief!" dame Nature called to Death,
As Willie drew his latest breath:
How shall I make a fool again —
My choicest model thou hast ta'en. —

The sun's high, I've slept enough, still too lazy to get up;
in a little room, quilts piled on, I'm not afraid of the cold.
The bell of the Temple of Bequeathed Love — I prop up my pillow to listen;
snow on Incense Burner Peak — rolling up the blind, I look at it.
K'uang's Mount Lu, a place for running away from fame;
marshal — a fitting post to spend old age in.
Mind peaceful, body at rest, this is where I belong.
Why should I always think of Ch'ang-an as home?

Still things moving,
firm become unfirm,
land like ocean waves,
house like a boat —
a time to be fearful,
but to delight as well:
no wind, yet the wind-bells
keep on ringing.

Sweet, at this morn I chancid
To peep into the chamber; lo! I glancid,
And saw white sheets thy whiter skin disclosing,
And soft-sweet cheek on pillow soft reposing;
Then said, " Were I that pillow,
Dear, for thy love I would not wear the willow."

A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.

The sunlight speaks, and its voice is a bird:
It glimmers half-guessed, half-seen, half-heard,
Above the flowerbed, over the lawn —
A flashing dip, and it is gone,
And all it lends to the eye is this —
A sunbeam giving the air a kiss.

Sun on hillsides, wind on seas,
And grey crags instead of trees;
Instead of men, the gulls' lament —
God! how should not my heart be rent?