Short Poems

Masses of dark moss, earth newly rained on,
tiny drops of cold dew under an autumnish sky:
don't stare at the bright moon, dwelling on the past—
you'll only mar the features of your face, shorten your years.

I block out the midday brightness with a screen depicting dark woods,
burn a stick of heavy incense, nursing my hangover.
What's this? As evening comes I'm ready for a drink again!
Beyond the wall I hear the cry of someone selling clams.

In the yellow dusk I stand alone before the Buddha hall;
pagoda tree blossoms fill the ground, cicadas fill the trees.
Each of the four seasons brings a pang to the heart,
but something special—the sadness of these autumn days!

From high to higher forces
The scale of power uprears,
The heroes on their horses,
The gods upon the spheres.

And when I am entombed in my place,
Be it remembered of a single man,
He never, though he dearly loved his race,
For fear of human eyes, swerved from his plan.

Parrat protests 'tis he, and only he
Can teach a man the Art of memory:
Believe him not; for he forgot it quite,
Being drunke, who 'twas that Can'd his Ribs last night.

Give, if thou canst, an Almes; if not, afford,
Instead of that, a sweet and gentle word:
God crowns our goodnesse, where so ere He sees,
On our part, wanting all abilities.

In the old Scripture I have often read,
The calfe without meale n'ere was offered;
To figure to us, nothing more then this,
Without the heart, lip-labour nothing is.

Rare are thy cheeks Susanna, which do show
Ripe Cherries smiling, while that others blow.

This rule of manners I will teach my guests,
To come with their own bellies unto feasts:
Not to eat equall portions; but to rise
Farc't with the food, that may themselves suffice.