Short Poems

Change thy stale promise. Breake thy Word; For [he]
That long keepes promise whole; may famish mee.

In the mountain village
the New Year dancers are late—
plum blossoms.

My sins which have accumulated
In the course of the year,—
May they melt together with
The white-snow which is falling
So thick that (the room) is dark!

The truest hour-glass lies; for, you'll confess,
All holes grow bigger, and the sand grows less.

A man shall come into this land
With shaven crown, and in his hand
A crooked staff; he shall command
And in the East his table stand:
From his warm lips a stream shall flow
To make rocks melt and churches grow.

When I am gone,
Above me raise no lofty stone
Perfect in human handicraft,
No upward pointing gleaming shaft.
Say this of me, and I be content,
That in the Master's work my life was spent;
Say not that I was either great or good,
But Mary-like, “She hath done what she could.”

Whateer is done to her she cannot know
And if youll ask her she will swear it so
Whether tis good or evil none's to blame
No one can take the pride no one the shame

M EYRICK ! surrounded by Silurian boors,
Against that rabble shut your castle-doors;
I mean that coarser rabble which aspires
To square its shoulders in the squad of squires;
Which holds the scholar under heavy ban,
And, drunk or sober, spurns the gentleman.
Meyrick! how wide your difference! hardly wider
Your mellow claret and their musty cider.

Shen is very sick these days, he's fading away.
Now he rides his horse up the mountain,
afraid of the winding path.
Suddenly—why can't I see him up on the horse?
Oh, there he is, his whole body covered with mud!

A sad thing it is
to hear it
in company
with the world's woes—
a storm
in the mountains
so near
to the capital.