Barber, barber, shave a pig,
How many hairs will make a wig?
Four and twenty, that's enough.
Give the barber a pinch of snuff.

Barre close as you can, and bolt fast too your doore,
To keep out the Letcher, and keep in the whore:
Yet, quickly you'l see by the turne of a pin,
The Whore to come out, or the Letcher come in.

Banish the scent of sherry and cigars,
Throw back the shutters, quench the cultured light,
Let in the air. O fresher than the stars
The rank, primeval innocent smell of night!

The baby moon, a canoe, a silver papoose canoe, sails and sails in the Indian west.
A ring of silver foxes, a mist of silver foxes, sit and sit around the Indian moon.
One yellow star for a runner, and rows of blue stars for more runners, keep a line of watchers.
O foxes, baby moon, runners, you are the panel of memory, fire-white writing tonight of the Red Man's dreams.
Who squats, legs crossed and arms folded, matching its look against the moon-face, the star-faces, of the West?

The babe, with a cry brief and dismal,
Fell into the water baptismal;
Ere they'd gathered its plight,
It had sunk out of sight,
For the depth of the font was abysmal.

Aye, the good man, kind father, best of friends--
These are the words that grow like grass and nettles
Out of dead men, and speckled hatreds hide
Like toads among them.

The Autumn day its course has run--the Autumn evening falls
Already risen the Autumn moon gleams quiet on these walls
And Twilight to my lonely house a silent guest is come
In mask of gloom through every room she passes dusk and dumb
Her veil is spread, her shadow shed o'er stair and chamber void
And now I feel her presence steal even to my lone fireside
Sit silent Nun--sit there and be
Comrade and Confidant to me.

Autumn, cloud blades on the horizon.
The west wind blows from ten thousand miles
Dawn, in the clear morning air,
Farmers busy after long rain
The desert trees shed their few green leaves
The mountain pears are tiny but ripe.
A Tartar flute plays by the city gate.
A single wild goose climbs into the void.

At this remote village, I have no neighbors.
In my thatched house, late at night: rain.
A dog barks somewhere out in the fields.
The cook whispers softly in the kitchen.

At the top of this ridge I could whistle happily.
Down at the bottom — I'm feeling depressed!
Looking back now at the thousand peaks:
there — the one lost in the clouds is Mount Lo-fu.