Short Poems

On the fifteenth night,
the glow of a new moon.
Two thousand miles away,
the heart of my friend.

If not to you,
to whom might I show
these plum blossoms?
Their color, their scent,
is known only by the knowing.

Darkness is futile
on a spring night;
plum blossoms,
even if the color is invisible,
how can the scent be concealed?

Winter has at last come
Unmistakably, even to my cottage
In the land of Tsu,
Which lies hidden
Among the rush-leaves.

When,
Halting in front of it, I look
At the reflection which is in the depths
Of my clear mirror,
It gives me the impression of meeting
An unknown old gentleman.

The time I went to see my Sister
Whom I loved unendurably,
The winter-night's
River-wind was so cold that
The sanderlings were crying.

If it were not for the voice
Of the nightingale,
How would the mountain-village
Where the snow is still unmelted
Know the spring?

The deer which lives
On the evergreen mountain
Where there are no autumn-leaves
Can know the coming of autumn
Only by its own cry.

For what mad lover ever died,
To gain a soft and gentle bride?
Or for a lady tender-hearted,
In purling streams, or hemp departed?
Leap'd headlong int' Elysium
Through th' windows of a dazzling room?
But for some cross, ill-natur'd dame,
The am'rous fly burnt in his flame.

Sir Hudibras his passing worth,
The manner how he sallied forth;
His arms and equipage are shown;
His horse's virtues, and his own.
Th' adventure of the bear and fiddle
Is sung, but breaks off in the middle.