Short Poems

Os male causidicis et dicis olere poetis.
Sed fellatori, Zoile, peius olet.

Not the unshriven wrong or the unpaid debt
Here in the crumbling years is my worst regret—
Rather the memory of one joy wasted:
Of a stupid, youthful righteousness that reckoned
Too bloodlessly, and once, when wild love beckoned,
Fled, leaving the perilous sweet sin untasted.

She has done with silkworms and the fieldwork,
This pensive wife, who yet laments her lot
In summer heat she is packing fine linen clothes,
To send away to her husband on his journeys.

Were there on Earth another Voice like thine,
Another Hand so blest with Skill Divine!
The late afflicted World some Hopes might have,
And Harmony retrieve thee from the Grave.

With passions not my own who fires my heart,
Who with unreal terrors fills my breast,
As with a magic influence possess'd.

Minutes are numbred by the fall of Sands;
As by an houre-glasse, the span of time
Doth waste us to our graves, and we looke on it.
An age of pleasures revel'd out, comes home
At last, and ends in sorrow, but the life
Weary of ryot, numbers every Sand,
Wayling in sighes, untill the last drop downe,
So to conclude calamity in rest.

God is believed in,
Because He can't be seen.

If a poet dwells on a dusty street,
Gardens glisten there;
Dry bread that feeds a singing heart
Is sweet and sumptuous fare;
For him who walks enchanted ways
Spring blossoms everywhere.

“Another letter?
Put it down somewhere over there,”
says the Shining Genji.

The waterfowl looks heavy,
Yet lo! it floats on water.