Short Poems

Judging by the pictures
hell looks like a more
exciting place

Day is warm,
fishes float in the blue.
Hoist anchor, hoist anchor!
In twos or threes,
gulls come and go.
Chigukch'ong chigukch'ong osawa.
Boy, I have a rod;
have you loaded a flagon of wine?

The village is so old, there is
No house but has persimmon trees.

This mountain with its towering rocks delights
The eye: its peaks grow dark with gathering clouds;
Its groves are thronged with peacocks eloquent
In joy; the trees upon its slopes are bright
With birds that flit about their nests; the caves
Reverberate the growl of bears; the scent
Of incense-trees is wafted, sharp and cool,
From branches broken off by elephants.

Or else their cooings came from bays of trees,
Like a contented wind, or gentle shocks
Of falling water. This and all of these
We tunèd to one key and made their harmonies.

To what shall I compare this life?
To white waves of foam trailing behind
a boat putting out at break of day.

Like shuttles fleet the clouds, and after
A drop of shade rolls over field and flock;
The wind comes breaking here and there with laughter:
The violet moves and copses rock.
…
When the wind drops you hear the skylarks sing;
From Oxford comes the throng and hum of bells
Breaking the . . . . air of spring.

Contemplate the body:
it is but rootless grass
lying on the riverbank;
and as for this life:
it is but a small boat
drifting at the channel's edge.

hardly a word spoken
the man and his wife part—
autumn nightfall

Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows
A living witness ye;
Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing,
Tempestuous and free,
The hard heart of humanity assailing
As doth her cliffs the sea.