Short Poems

The beauties of a brook or river
Must be sought,
And the pleasure is
In going in search of them.
Those of a lake
Or of the sea
Come to you of themselves.

emerging from the rubbish
swept into a pile

When good St. David, as old writs record,
Exchanged his sacred Crosier for a sword,
Nor drum nor standard kept his men together,
Each smelt his neighbour's vegetable feather.
In heart and stomach stout they turned not crupper:
The Foe their breakfast was, the Leek their supper.

Must be God's warders hearken every sigh,
Draw close and lovingly around the old;
The glories on the going summer lie,
On the spent sun attend the hosts in gold.

While it's summer people say
Winter is the better season.
Such is human reason!

I know monks masturbate at night
That pet cats screw
That some girls bite
And yet
What can I do
To set things right?

Thousands of flowers, thousands of petals:
turned to dust on the ground!
Only the vines are still blossoming, by themselves.
But things must be even worse at my neighbor's house:
the butterflies that flew into his garden
have come back here again!

O cuckoo, who singest merrily, playing with thy beak in the Shenbaka flowers, laden with honey,
The god, who holds a white conch in his left hand, has not shown his form to me, but has entered into my heart and has made me suffer sorely.
Wilt thou sing, but not too loudly, so that he may come to me?

To-night I stay at the Summit Temple.
Here I could pluck the stars with my hand,
I dare not speak aloud in the silence,
For fear of disturbing the dwellers of heaven.

To whom, if not to you, Sir, should I send
My book about your friend?
You with appraising kindliness will take
Its praises, for his sake:
As to its censure, who's the censor? Why,
I am: and who am I?