Short Poems

The butterfly sleeps well
Perched upon the temple bell. . . .
Until it rings!

Her hands of white jade by a window of snow
Are glimmering on a golden-fretted harp—
And to draw the quick eye of Chou Yü,
She touches a wrong note now and then.

Nothing is more cruel than to see
workers
in the early morning
stooping to build a jail.

Herald of blissful summertide come I;
I wander by,
Singing of sweetest things the June day knows,—
Love and the rose.

Too long to-night you've lingered here,
And, though you imitate
The crowing of a cock, 'twill not
Unlock the tollbar gate;
Till daylight must you wait.

In six gold weeks of summer
The stripéd bee,
Still eager for more roses,
And sunny paths of clover sweetness,
Dies,
Believing that flowers are eternal.

Ride a-cock horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady upon a white horse;
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,
She shall have music wherever she goes.

It comes to my shoulder
longing for human company:
a red dragonfly.

I play my zither by the northern window,
Echoes of night full of clear tones sad.
The key raised, a string soon snaps
And my heart mourns the melody lost.

This earth Pythonax and his brother hides,
Who died before they reached youth's lovely prime.
The tomb their father built them; which abides
For ever, though they lived so short a time.