Short Poems

I heard from Rémon, Rémon,
He said to Simon, Simon,
He said to Titine, Titine, that he was unhappy.
O dame Romulus, oh,
Fair dame Romulus, oh!
O dame Romulus, oh!
How could you be cruel to me?

There was an Old Man of Coblenz,
The length of whose legs was immense;
He went with one prance, from Turkey to France,
That surprising Old Man of Coblenz.

There was an old man with a light,
Who was dressed in a garment of white;
He held a small candle, with never a handle,
And danced all the merry long night.

I can not tell, not I, why she
Awhile so gracious, now should be
So grave: I can not tell you why
The violet hangs its head awry.
It shall be cull'd, it shall be worn,
In spite of every sign of scorn,
Dark look, and overhanging thorn.

I bring you with reverent hands
The books of my numberless dreams,
White woman that passion has worn
As the tide wears the dove-grey sands,
And with heart more old than the horn
That is brimmed from the pale fire of time
White woman with numberless dreams,
I bring you my passionate rhyme.

I face the yellow flowers,
silent, saying nothing.
The yellow flowers face me
as if they had feeling.
Slender stems, leaf after leaf
touched with frosty breath;
heavy flowers, petal after petal
alive with the clarity of autumn.

I don't understand it myself —
for some time now I've stopped writing poems!
Could I have lost the " brush of Magistrate Chiang? "
Or could the " shuttle of Master Hsieh " have broken my teeth?
Feelings for the moon? As heavy as wine!
Love for the flowers? Overflows like waves!
Spirit of poetry, quickly, come back!
Don't let the spring go by without any poems.

I don't believe in becoming a Buddha,
reborn in Paradise;
and talk of Immortals flying off in broad daylight
is nonsense.
All I'll do is swim my way through a lifetime of wine —
a much better plan than struggling to live for a thousand years!

I cross a stream, cross another stream,
admire the flowers, admire still more flowers.
In spring breeze, along the river road,
before I know it I have reached your house.

I ask't thee oft, what Poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best? Still thou reply'st, The dead.
I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou't like, or thou wilt envie me.