Short Poems

Last night my girdle came undone,
And this morning a luck-beetle flew over my bed.
So here are my paints and here are my powders—
And a welcome for my yoke again.

Never think you fortune can bear the sway
Where virtue's force can cause her to obey.

Grant me, Rama, to see Thee, see Thee: grant me to see, make no delay.
Life of my life it is to see Thee: can the chakor live except he see Thee?

Sadhus, of the Sat Guru all the world is chela: if parted now, how hope to meet Him?
Tis vain to trust on wealth and beauty—the truth, the truth proclaims Rai Das.

Let now your soul in this substantial world
Some anchor strike. Be here the body moored:—
This spectacle immutably from now
The picture in your eye; and when time strikes,
And the green scene goes on the instant blind—
The ultimate helpers, where your horse to-day
Conveyed you dreaming, bear your body dead.

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column;
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

There is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worne by you . .
Hearts-ease . . of all Earth's flowers most rare;
Bring it; and bring enough for two.

I gave you a picture once,
A great crimson sun floating beside a gnarled bamboo.
The sun has faded;
For which reason, I think nothing of the painter,
Until I reflect that many pigments cannot bear the dazzle of excessive light.
For, my Dear, have you not sat opposite it daily?
I ask you, is there truth in this?

T'ung-ch'uan is a beautiful place:
on all sides, emerald hibiscus!
A tall pagoda guards the pass, alone;
a clear stream embraces city walls.
The marketplace resounds with accents of Wu visitors;
some shrines bear dedications from Han days.
I want to visit the Immortal Hermit, Mei,
but which mountain is he hiding on?

Volumes of books, tea and incense:
all his worries disappear!
He returns from a dream,
lying on his pillow at noon,
wind from the bamboos through the window.
Busy myself, I see this scene and feel ashamed:
how could I ever live as calmly
as the man in the painting?

Your teeth are loose, your head is bald,
you're sixty-three years old;
every aspect of your life
should make you feel ashamed.
All that's left that interests you
are the products of your brush:
leave them behind to give the world
something to talk about.