Short Poems

The stars around the lovely moon
Their radiant visage hide as soon
As she, full-orbed, appears to sight,
Flooding the earth with her silvery light.

The pomp of the Persian I hold in aversion;
I hate their theatrical tricks;
Their garlicky wreathings and lindeny tree-things—Nix.

Boy, me for the myrtle while under this fertile
Old grapevine I mellowly sink
As you and bibacious old Quintus Horatius Drink.

No system this of deep devotion,
A Book indeed, without a notion:
And yet in these fair leaves you'll find
An emblem of my tender Mind;
Both spotless, ready to receive
Each kind impression You shall give.

She had no gift to bring her heart's beloved,
So poor she was and sad,
Having no store laid by to cheer the bleak tomorrow,
So for his weal she offered all she had—her sorrow.
Who knows but God, compassionate, took heed
Accepting this her treasure,
And on her heart's beloved one in his need
Spent it in fullest measure.

How the autumn storm roars,
Blowing along even wild boars!

The cause of all men's midday naps—
The autumn moon.

A baby which gazes at falling flowers,
With its mouth open, is a Buddha.

It is the Happy New Year's Day;
I was not such an old daddy after all.

The price of the daughter he sold
Has vanished like lightning.

I sit up or lie down and yet,
How large is the mosquito-net!