The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approached unlocked her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sung no more:
Farewell, all joys; O death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.

Silent , you say, I'm grown of late,
Nor yield, as you do, to our fate?
Ah! that alone is truly pain
Of which we never can complain.

Silent, the autumn river, fishermen's fires sparse.
I rise to watch the waning moon shine faintly on the trees.
Moonlight on the waves — the waterbirds are kept awake;
dew chilling the fireflies — they are too damp to fly.

Shut not your doors to me proud libraries,
For that which was lacking on all your well-fill'd shelves, yet needed most, I bring,
Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made,
The words of my book nothing, the drift of it every thing,
A book separate, not link'd with the rest nor felt by the intellect,
But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.

The day she began using chopsticks:
A shrike calls when I kiss my infant's cheek

Shew me thy feet; shew me thy legs, thy thighes;
Shew me Those Fleshie Principalities;
Shew me that Hill (where smiling Love doth sit)
Having a living Fountain under it.
Shew me thy waste; Then let me there withall,
By the Assention of thy Lawn, see All.

'Tis true I weepe, I sigh, I wring my hands,
But thou, o love, hast yet no cause to laffe:
For whilst I wring my hands, I thence shake off
What I once held for ornaments thy bands.
And those deepe sighes to fanne the fire that serv'd,
To blow away the stormes are now reserv'd.

Shoot, false Love, I care not.
Spend thy shafts and spare not.
I fear not, I, thy might,
And less I weigh thy spite.
If thou canst, now shoot and harm me.
So lightly I esteem thee,
As now a child I deem thee.

Thanks to Spring, a nameless hill
Has its veil of morning mist.

Sheer cliff, far mountains,
blue-green shadows flow;
the wild goose flies off in space,
the southern sky so vast.
What year will I construct a home
here, beneath the pines,
and sit to listen to the waterfall,
cold in summer months?