Short Poems

On the river, the spring tides are calm.
In the boat, a day seems like a year.
No need to grow feathers or wings—
do nothing, and be an immortal!

Lord of a castle—
her beauty reduced him
to a dried-up moat

A mountain village
at autumn's end—
that's when you learn
what mournfulness means
in the blast of the wintry wind

Let me die in spring
under the blossoming trees,
let it be around
that full moon
of Kisaragi month

Slip a little something
into his sleeve
and watch the sour expression fade

The birds called warblers are fancy mountain birds,
fancy birds that hide in mountains and recite poetry.
When your voice gets croaky, borrow the warbler's voice.
Raise your voice and sing, warblers in the fields.
We never tire of hearing your voice, your reedy voice!

How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee!
--Have the slow years not brought to view
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Nor memory shaped old times anew,
Nor loving-kindness helped to show thee
How great my grief, my joys how few,
Since first it was my fate to know thee?

Heaven is not far, tho' far the sky
Overarching earth and main.
It takes not long to live and die,
Die, revive, and rise again.
Not long: how long? Oh, long re-echoing song!
O Lord, how long?

Yet once again do I behold the forms
Of these huge mountains, and yet once again,
Standing beneath these elms, I hear thy voice,
Beloved Derwent, that peculiar voice
Heard in the stillness of the evening air,
Half-heard and half-created.

I NEED not shout my faith. Thrice eloquent
Are quiet trees and the green listening sod.
Hushed are the stars, whose power is never spent;
The hills are mute—yet how they speak of God!