Browning makes the verses:
Your servant the critique.
Browning wouldn't sing at all:
I fancy I could speak.
Although the book was clever
(To give the Deil his due)
I wasn't pleased with Browning
Nor he with my review.

Brown is my Love, but graceful;
And each renowned whiteness
Matched with thy lovely brown loseth its brightness.

Fair is my Love, but scornful:
Yet I have seen despised
Dainty white lilies, and sad flowers well prized.

Brown earth-line meets gray heaven,
And all the land looks sad;
But Love's the little leaven
That works the whole world glad.
Sigh, bitter wind; lower, frore clouds of gray:
My Love and I are living now in May!

A hazy mountain temple hides away behind the setting sun.
Dusk falls before birds on the wing get halfway up to the top.
From above, a single chime of the temple bell
Brings the passing clouds to a halt.

I try to climb the lofty peak to steal a look at the bright Moon.
Maybe she is in the mood to open the Eye of Heaven for a peep at the mundane world.
Pity is that I am but a mortal in her heavenly eyes.

If someone came what would I do
dozing here with my clothes on
completely at ease, feeling frisky
human life? What can you say
rank is above me a bit
wealth, I don't need it
haha, you laugh
I laugh, haha.

Small as he is he can nimbly dance
From fold of collar to waist of pants.
The prick of a lance
Is this creature's bite,
And he can elude the keenest sight.
How can one capture a creature who
With a somersault can vanish from view?!

Brissit brawnis and broken banis,
Strife, discord, and waistis wanis,
Crookit in eild, syne halt withal--
Thir are the bewteis of the fute-ball.

Bring your shears and clip him well,
His forked claws and his whipping tail,
Cut him out of his wicked shell
And leave him as clean as a flower-bell;
For he was disposed in a diagram
More intricate than the whited clam,
More scaly than the wooly lamb
And almost as evil as I am.

Bright as the day, and like the morning fair,
Such Chloe is—and common as the air.

Breath of spring bit by bit milder;
rattling the rings on my staff, I head for the east town.
Green green, willows in the gardens;
bobbing bobbing, duckweed on the pond.
Alms bowl smelling sweet with rice from a thousand houses;
heart indifferent to ten-thousand-chariot glory.
Following in tracks of old-time buddhas,
begging for food, I go my way.