Short Poems

Ah! How many a foe has Truth! My soul is in anguish
As the owls I observe forcing a way to the light.

There was an Old Person of Cannes,
Who purchased three fowls and a fan;
Those she placed on a stool, and to make them feel cool
She constantly fanned them at Cannes.

The west window is a panel of marching onions.
Five new lilacs nod to the wind and fence boards.
The rain dry fence boards, the stained knot holes,
heliograph a peace.
(How long ago the knee drifts here and a blizzard
howling at the knot holes,
whistling winter war drums?)

A silent, thatched hut deep among the trees—
but the hermit's tracks are hidden, and hard to trace.
It must be that he has gone off alone, lute in hand,
to play in harmony with the ancient music
of pine tree and bamboo.

Clouds are swept into the sunset—a sky beyond the sky.
Standing against the wind—sparse willows,
their branches blown aslant.
The fisherman throws down his nets to dry on the hillside,
and lies beside them—drunk—to catch some sleep.

My longings unbearable,
I went to see my love—
the winter night's river wind
so cold the plovers cried

Looking at the moon,
I see the branches of cherry
trembling in the wind
and almost tell myself,
“They're in bloom!”

“I'll untie my sash brocaded with a wheel design.
When you come in the evening, be quiet, my love.”
“Let me in quietly, my darling, let me in quietly.
They've all gone to sleep.”
“Like the cloud crossing the face of the moon,
I see you clearly, I see you clearly.”

Winter's latest snowflake is the snowdrop flower,
Yellow crocus kindles the first flame of the Spring,
At that time appointed, at that day and hour
When life reawakens and hope in everything.
Such a tender snowflake in the wintry weather,
Such a feeble flamelet for chilled St. Valentine,—
But blest be any weather which finds us still together,
My pleasure and my treasure O blessed Mother mine.

Friends to me are frozen wine
I wait the sun shall on them shine