Short Poems

Truelove, come O come to me,
I am waiting here for thee:
I am waiting here for thee,
Truelove, come O come to me!
Sweetest mouth red as the rose,
Come and heal me of my woes:
Come and heal me of my woes,
Sweetest mouth red as the rose.

I get off my horse, offer you wine,
Ask you where you are going
You say there is something troubling you
And go home to rest at the edge of southern hills
Be off them—I'll ask no more—
White clouds for eternity.

The spring wind stirs my romantic heart,
I let my eyes roam over mountain and forest.
Strange yet lovely, the colors of mountain and forest,
Birds in the sun let fall their limpid songs.

If I write any more, it will make my poor muse sick.
This night I came home with a very cold dew sick,
And I wish I may soon not be of an a-gue sick;
But, I hope I shall ne'er be, like you, of a shrew sick,
Who often has made me, by looking askew, sick.

Thou hast not lost all glory, Rome!
With thee have found their quiet home
Two whom we followers most admire
Of those that swell our sacred quire;
And many a lowered voice repeats
Hush! here lies Shelley! here lies Keats!

No rain, and yet my saddle is damp,
and so I know we're traveling in fog.
Morning blossoms—hard to tell their colors;
river water—only hear the sound.
The man beside me seems miles away;
all day the sky is as before the dawn.
The road ahead has always been a dream:
why insist on seeing it all clear?

The mood comes on—I want to cross Hsi-ling
and so my tiny boat floats in this painting.
Clear ripples, rippling in the breeze
have the power to open up my heart.
What a shame! That traveler on a raft
uselessly traveled to the stars and back.
How much better, the paddle in my hands,
moving, stopping—this is real calm.

A man who was about to hang himself,
Finding a purse, then threw away his rope;
The owner, coming to reclaim his pelf,
The halter found, and used it. So is Hope
Changed for Despair--one laid upon the shelf,
We take the other. Under Heaven's high cope
Fortune is God--all you endure and do
Depends on circumstance as much as you.

We heard the call—
but still
we put off parting;
until
—before we heard
the cock calling once again—
night have given way

I cannot claim
that it does not
trouble my thoughts—
the sight
of blossoms
that so increase
one's longing
for things of long ago.