Short Poems

A pitiful sight —
that smoke rising at evening
from a brushwood fire.

His charcoal sold at market,
a man returns to the hills.

Lamp by the yellow chrysanthemums,
close onto midnight;
tomorrow morning you set off
to tread the Shinshu clouds.
Our one pot of wine gone,
but stay a little longer —
in this sickness near to death,
must I say goodbye to you?

Let all chaste Matrons, when they chance to see
My num'rous issue: Praise, and pitty me.
Praise me, for having such a fruitfull wombe;
Pity me too, who found so soone a Tomb.

Last night thou didst invite me home to eate;
And shew'st me there much Plate, but little meat;
Prithee, when next thou do'st invite, barre State,
And give me meate, or give me else thy Plate.

Lemonade
Made in the shade
Stirred with a spade
By an old maid.

The leaves are sere,
The woods are drear,
The breeze that erst so merrily did play,
Naught giveth save a melancholy lay;
Yet life's great lessons do not fail
E'en in November's gale.

LEAVE him: he's quiet enough: and what matter
Out of his body or in, you can scatter
The frozen breath of his silenced soul, of his outraged soul to the winds that rave
Quieter now than he used to be, but listening still to the magpie chatter
Over his grave.

Learn, Lads and Lasses, of my Garden,
That Time doth Thorns and Thistles harden,
And that ill Weeds make no good hay;
Why then should any of you say
We will be better, when we're older [?]
I am afraid, you shall be Colder
In Soul, in Spirit, and in Flesh:
Therefore mend, mend! whilst young and fresh.

Last night, as through the crowd on Market Street
A new-made soldier proudly swung along,
Guiding that gray-eyed wonder called his girl,
Whose face turned up to him in silent song:

I marked, above those gay young hearts atune,
The unimportant beauty of the moon.

The land was white,
The seed was black;
It will take a good scholar
To riddle me that.