Short Poems

The white dew,
come from no one knows where—
when evening falls,
here it is on the grass

On the storm's freezing blast,
the sound of two tollings—
then I hear no more
from the morning bell

The mountain wind
has finished tossing
the bamboos in the hedge,
but now from summit pines
it comes echoing down again

waiting for what?
each day each day
more fallen leaves pile up.

Tenement house—
mosquito repellent smoldering
in every window down the row.

Hurt no living thing:
Ladybird, nor butterfly,
Nor moth with dusty wing,
Nor cricket chirping cheerily,
Nor grasshopper so light of leap,
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat,
Nor harmless worms that creep.

The rain bow sweepeth in a mighty stride
Its pale tricoulered arch across the heath
& beautiful the spot this dignified
With golden furze in blossom underneath

I love to hear the uproar of the wind
Amidst the forrest foliage hoarsely rave
But like all joys it leaves a pain behind
As falling leaves grow summons for the grave

I well remember by this leaning gate
That creaks when by each ploughboy open thrown
How on a summer eve I wont to wait
For one hope won & since hath called my own

The school boys with their ruddy cheeks
& mind disposd to play
Again the painted pooty seeks
Along their morning way
No more the winters biting breath
In croodling haste they shun
But loiter oft on moor & heath
& think the spring begun