Wenig ist, was ich begehre,
Und doch steht es mir so fern:
Aus dem ganzen Sternenheere
Einen einz'gen lieben Stern!
Und was Himmel, Erd' und Meere
Noch umfassen - ließ' ich gern!
A GOD-LIKE face, with human love and will
And tender fancy traced in every line:
A god-like face, but oh, how human still!
Dear Keats, who love the gods their love is thine.
Bless'd be the princes who have fought
For pompous names or wide dominion,
Since by their error we are taught
That happiness is but opinion.
Ovid is the surest guide
You can name to show the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray.
Thoughts are apples on the tree,
Not meant for anyone in particular,
But they end up belonging
To the one who takes them.
Books, Pictures, Statues, here we find,
And each excelling in their Kind.
Mead's Taste in ev'ry Thing we view;
But chiefly in his Choice of You.
Writing shit about new snow
for the rich
is not art.
Translated by Robert Hass
Wrapping the rice cakes,
with one hand
she fingers back her hair.
Translated by Robert Hass
Wrapping dumplings in
bamboo leaves, with one finger
she tidies her hair
All the Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
Layin' in the sun,
Talkin' 'bout the things
They woulda coulda shoulda done...
But those Woulda-Coulda-Shouldas
All ran away and hid
From one little Did.
