Short Poems

Wind off the river
blows through a clump of willows—
and spring appears.

Shrubs and grasses—
even these make me long bitterly
for the old capital.

No resemblance do I see
to that other countenance.

While I have you,
why tire of you and think
of anyone else?

Out on frost-laden fields
autumn has come to its end.

To them that knew her, there is vital flame
In these the simple letters of her name.
To them that knew her not, be it but said,
So strong a spirit is not of the dead.

Eighty years, and I've added another,
a drifting traveler, leaving things up to Heaven.
Who understands that a poor monk too can boast of riches—
yellow leaves are his gold, the mosses his copper coins.

When I tire of this spot as well,
too gloomy to live in,
when I drift
on my way, pine,
you'll be left alone

Clouds have all scattered
from the tall peak
where I wait for moonrise—
what kindness in the first
of these early winter showers!

A route of evanescence
With a revolving wheel;
A resonance of emerald,
A rush of cochineal;
And every blossom on the bush
Adjusts its tumbled head,—
The mail from Tunis, probably,
An easy morning's ride.