Short Poems

The man on duty,
Standing at the vessel's helm,
Must watch nor slumber,
Though the winds in zephyrs blow,
And the waves lie calm below.

There was an Old Person of Woking,
Whose mind was perverse and provoking;
He sate on a rail, with his head in a pail,
That illusive Old Person of Woking.

Bloom or repute for graft or seed
In flowers the flower-gods never heed.
The rose-god once came down and took—
Form in a rose? Nay, but indeed
The meeker form and humbler look
Of Sweet-Briar, a wilding or weed.

The mountains beyond the city fade to nothingness;
the clear waves below the city reveal Lake Yü-ku.
White pagodas, red boats returning for the night:
Chia-chou, it seems, has a West Lake of its own.

Charitable Ann—
Give this poor man—
As much as you can—
A little meat
And bread to eat
And a shady seat—

You are a yonger brother; but, God shield
That I should make you so, were you a child;
No; I will make you (as you are) a man
Of that desert as you both will and can
Teach yonger brothers to be generous;
And liue like those that grace not shame, their House.

Here brewer Gabriel's fire 's extinct,
And empty all his barrels:
He 's blest—if as he brew'd he drink—
In upright, honest morals.

How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper—solitude is sweet.

I praise the Frenchman, his remark was shrewd,
How sweet, how passing sweet is solitude!
But grant me still a friend in my retreat,
Whom I may whisper, Solitude is sweet.

Under the pines I questioned the boy.
“My master's off gathering herbs.
All I know is he's here on the mountain—
clouds are so deep, I don't know where. . . .”