Short Poems

Purity
Is obscurity.

Red Fort Delhi -
the guide twirls his moustache
talking Shah Jahan

I idly open a book of T'ang poems
and find a petal of peach blossom, still fresh.
I remember taking this book with me
to read among the flowers
and realize that another year has passed.

Rasuls, knows thy locks and looks
is a fine faith.
How'd he know what is kufur,
and what Islam, dear.

Rasul, even though you are infamous for your love of tulip lips,
be happy, for seldom do the lovers complain of thy in-attention.

Love was the task to which Rasul applied himself with abandon.
Love, and beloved, a total world, with neither time nor space for the mundane.

Bien drømmer om sin Kube ved hver Blomst bag Skovens Hang;
Honning Du til Danmark samled' paa den grønne Digter-Vang;
Bakkehuset vil forglemmes, men ei hvad dit Hjerte sang.

Glemt staaer hans Grav bag Kloster-Kirkens Muur,
Endt er hans Drøm om Glæde og om Smerte;
Han var en Digter-Blomst i Guds Natur,
Hvis friske Duft har qvæget mangt et Hjerte.

The rain is raining all around,
It falls on field and tree,
It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.

'Get children,' says Commodus. Why unbar
The portals of the earth? Pre-natal dead
If you had entered here the god of war
Had slaughtered you to crown ambition's head!

Af Savn og Fryd, som brænder i mit eget Blod,
med svale Hænder plukker jeg en Blomstergren,
for Eders Sjælenød en overdaadig Duft,
sød for den rene, ren for den vellystige.