Short Poems

Why have I come hither, after all?
Solitude is my lot at Sand Hill City.
There are old trees by the city wall,
And busy voices of autumn, day and night.
The Luh wine will not soothe my soul,
Nor the touching songs of Chi move me;
But all my thoughts flow on to you
With the waters of the Min endlessly southward.

A morning-rain has settled the dust in Wêi-ch'êng;
Willows are green again in the tavern dooryard. . . .
Wait till we empty one more cup—
West of Yang Gate there'll be no old friends.

Where a yellow river climbs to the white clouds,
Near the one city-wall among ten-thousand-foot mountains,
A Tartar under the willows is lamenting on his flute
That spring never blows to him through the Jade Pass.

She brings a broom at dawn to the Golden Palace doorway
And dusts the hall from end to end with her round fan,
And, for all her jade-whiteness, she envies a crow
Whose cold wings are kindled in the Court of the Bright Sun.

Women use shop windows to look through,
Admiring the goods displayed.
Men use them to look at,
Finding them agreeable

All come at last to be a fan's
Old sticks when blows the autumn breeze.

Oh! what a heavy weight of snow,
Sweep as you may, sweep as you may!

After I've swept and tidied up,
Adown fall some camellias.

I saw a man about to write a poem:
He trod ruthlessly down a subway car,
Leaving behind him, left and right,
Macerated corns
And anguished faces.
Twenty minutes later
He wrote a lyric
Of exquisite tenderness.

The asters bloom. Come butterflies,
And dally o'er the colour dish!