Short Poems

River slopes, already into the midmonth of spring;
under the blossoms, bright mornings again:
I look up, eager to watch the birds;
turn my head, answering what I took for a call.
Reading books, I skip the difficult parts;
faced with wine, I keep my cup filled.
These days I've gotten to know the old man of Emei;
he understands this idleness that is my true nature.

Roads go ever on and on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where sun has never shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Reach, with your whiter hands, to me
Some crystal of the spring,
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this:
To th' glass your lips incline,
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turned to wine.

Rare temples thou hast seen, I know,
And rich for in- and outward show:
Survey this chapel, built, alone,
Without or lime, or wood, or stone;
Then say if one thou'st seen more fine
Than this, the Fairies' once, now thine.

Rolling clouds of greasy smoke,
Crashing giant trees;
Roaring, flashing, fiendish flames,
Upon an angry breeze.
Frightened, fleeing, bird and beast,
Shrieking in despair—
The ugly demon, forest fire,
Is on another tear.

The robin and the wren
Are God Almighty's cock and hen.
The martin and the swallow
Are God Almighty's bow and arrow.

Because river-fog
Hiding the mountain base
Has risen,
The autumn mountain looks as though it hung in the sky.

The ring, so worn as you behold,
So thin, so pale, is yet of gold:
The passion such it was to prove--

Worn with life's care, love yet was love.

Black Waters, since your first pure innocence,
You have for ever staind with your offence;
If you will strive to expiate what you may,
Drop into teares and weepe your selves away.

Ring-a-ring o' roses,
A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down