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What bark impell'd by autumn's fresh'ning gale
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Add but a handle to the moon
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Coming this mountain way, no herb
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Oh! clouds about the moon, from whence
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Come, breeze, and lightly blow upon
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A Temple on a hill, whose bell
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So frail our life, perchance to-morrow's sun
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Elegy on the Death of the Korean Nun Rigwan
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Nothing in the cicada's voice
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A Change of garments, And the spring
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