Short Poems

Love's records, written on a heart like mine,
Not Time's last effort can efface a line.

Hast thou a friend? Thou hast indeed
A rich and large supply,
Treasure to serve your ev'ry need,
Well-manag'd, till you die.

Home from work,
the bachelor sniffs
at the leftover rice

sleep on the ground
sooner or later
peaceful as a clod of dirt.

Today's landowner planted stacks of paddies,
built eight rows of storehouses, and attracted virtues.
Let's grow rice that rustles, let's build storehouses everywhere.
Kyoto blacksmiths will make the storehouse keys.
Today's landowner's called a millionaire loaded with blessings!

Why did baby die,
Making Father sigh,
Mother cry?

Flowers, that bloom to die,
Make no reply
Of “why?”
But bow and die.

That each should in his house abide,
Therefore was the world so wide

One feeds on Lard, and yet is leane;
And I but feasting with a Beane,
Grow fat and smooth: The reason is,
Jove prospers my meat, more then his.

Though a wise man all pressures can sustaine;
His vertue still is sensible of paine:
Large shoulders though he has, and well can beare,
He feeles when Packs do pinch him; and the where.

All has been plundered from me, but my wit;
Fortune her selfe can lay no claim to it.