Short Poems

Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.

From the walls of Baidi high in the coloured dawn
To Jiangling by night-fall is three hundred miles,
Yet monkeys are still calling on both banks behind me
To my boat these ten thousand mountains away.

Here at the world's end the cold winds are beginning to blow. What messages
have you for me, my master? When will the poor wandering goose arrive? The
rivers and lakes are swollen with autumn's waters. Art detests a too successful
life; and the hungry goblins await you with welcoming jaws. You had better have
a word with the ghost of that other wronged poet. Drop some verses into the
Mi-lo as an offering to him!

785

They have a little Odor—that to me
Is metre—nay—'tis melody—
And spiciest at fading—indicate—
A Habit—of a Laureate—

868

They ask but our Delight—
The Darlings of the Soil
And grant us all their Countenance
For a penurious smile.

When in still air and still in summertime
A leaf has had enough of this, it seems
To make up its mind to go; fine as a sage
Its drifting in detachment down the road.


Anonymous submission.

Three wise men of Gotham,
They went to sea in a bowl,
And if the bowl had been stronger,
My song had been longer.

Three very popular errors:
God does not need me,
God cares only for others,
God is other than my own Reality-Existence.

[Excerpt from “Transcendence-Perfection”]

Three little birds in a row
Sat musing.
A man passed near that place.
Then did the little birds nudge each other.

Three blind mice, three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all run after the farmer's wife,
And she cut off their tails with a carving knife,
Did ever you see such a thing in your life
As three blind mice!