Short Poems

Bring her rare unguents, and clear scented water,
And a gold gown, fit for a king's white daughter.
Bring mounds of flowers that she may spill about,
And herbs to make sweet smoke ere she goes out.
The victor is this maid's delight,
And he keeps tryst to-night.

I stretch starved hands through the night,
Praying for tenderness.
Mary! From your calm height,
Pity my loneliness!
Incline a heart to loving-kindness,
Which strikes me dead of cold, because of blindness.

Verily the young would love me
For what I should say;
For I sing in graceful accents,
I can sweetly talk.

In scatterings end collections all;
High towering piles at last must fall;
In parting every meeting ends;
To death all life of creatures tends.

When but a little I had learned, in my own partial eyes
I seemed a perfect Solon and immeasurably wise;
But when a little higher I had climbed in wisdom's school
The fever-fit was over and I knew myself a fool.

I ask for Allah's pardon, if I dare
To weigh and criticise what He hath done;
But when He made thy beauty shining fair,
What need was there for Him to make the Sun?

How cool are these Saga bamboos!—
A picture of refreshing air.

O, friend, come to my hut
To hear the bagworms' voice.

Lo! in the spring breeze, pipe in mouth,
Mr. Boatman waits for passengers.

No pretty face is to be seen
Among the group viewing the moon.