Short Poems

self-congratulatory nonsense as the

They may abuse me or jeer at me,
They may say what pleases them,
They may with flowers worship me.
What profits them whatever they do?
I am indifferent to praise and blame.

They end their flight
one by one---
crows at dusk.


Translated by Robert Hass

Like mutilated skulls they roll
Across the soul's white sand
And only she can make a wall
And only she can understand
Let my experience be a lamp displayed
To light the untried lover to his maid.

These sea slugs,
they just don't seem
Japanese.


Translated by Robert Hass

There's not a trace of cloud
Now-and she
Is in my thoughts;
The moon and my heart
Seem to waver.

There was set before me a mighty hill,
And long days I climbed
Through regions of snow.
When I had before me the summit-view,
It seemed that my labour
Had been to see gardens
Lying at impossible distances.

There was an old woman
Liv'd under a hill,
And if she isn't gone
She lives there still.

There was an old man on the Border,
Who lived in the utmost disorder;
He danced with the cat, and made tea in his hat,
Which vexed all the folks on the Border.

There was an old man of Thermopylæ,
Who never did anything properly;
But they said, "If you choose, To boil eggs in your shoes,
You shall never remain in Thermopylæ."