Short Poems

Jesu Christ, my lemmon swete,
That diyedest on the Rode Tree,
With all my might I thee beseche,
For thy woundes two and three,
That also faste mot thy love
Into mine herte fitched be
As was the spere into thine herte,
Whon thou soffredest deth for me.

Jenny gay and Johnny grim,
In your house so green, so trim,
Tell me truly, tell me, pray,
What's the weather for to-day?
Jenny's standing at her door,
So dull days are surely o'er . . .
Ah, but John's popped out again
Just to say, “It's going to rain.”

Jack, eating rotten cheese, did say,
"Like Samson I my thousands slay.'
"I vow', quoth Roger, "so you do,

And with the self-same weapon, too!

Jack, be nimble,
Jack, be quick,
And Jack, jump over the candle-stick.

I've been chanting poems for forty years:
the ocean of learning has filled my life.
Two or three masters from the Han and Wei,
and several hundred poets of the T'ang!
Stroking my beard, I've polished verses,
feeling proud whenever I get them just right.
Don't you see that in Tu Fu
the feelings are real, the words naturally beautiful?

Above the Uji landscape —
moon on the mountain rim.

In the clouds of dawn
the first wild goose of autumn

From within the bamboo blinds —
the rustle of silken robes.
Near the eaves —
a fragrance of blossoms
in deepening moonlight.

" This is our home now, "
the birds twitter away.

Who planted them —
those trees out in the fields
shrouded by mist?

It ain't no use to grumble and complain;
— — It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice;
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
— — Why, rain's my choice.

I've got a bow and arrow,
And I take them to the wood,
And don't the rabbits scuttle
For they think I'm Robin Hood!