How does he
know
that spring
has come to the world?
From
within
the cage
where he wakes
from sleep
at daybreak—
the sound
of a warbler's call.

The one
who promised
now has gone off
who knows where,
a bird flying off
at morning,
into the sky,
leaving me
in evening's wake.

There is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land,
And wailing lamentation from a famine-stricken band;
And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair,
For the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare.

Woe for Lorc's ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief;
Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief;
For the harvest lieth scattered, more worth to us than gold,
All the kindly food that nourished both the young and the old.

Well I mind me of the cosherings, where princes might dine,

He only said, ‘I'm very weary.’
The rheumatiz he said,
He said, ‘It's awful dull and dreary.
I think I'll go to bed.’

on a youngster's
open umbrella

murmur of waves
unheeded by today's
wild daffodils

I've just seen Mrs Hopkins—and read her the lines,
(And they'll do for the mirror in print, she opines;)—
And so pray keep the book—till you've copied the rhyme,
For I shan't be in want of it now for some time.

I got home about five o'clock yesterday night—
As I fancy too you must have done—while 'twas light;—
For I saw you at Houghton—(I stood on the ridge
Upon Bury Hill side,)—and ride over the bridge.

I have sent you these numbers, by Robert—they'll be
An amusement perhaps to inspect after tea;—
They are beautiful things—and I think they're not dear

I am all the time being pursued.
Like the star in a horror movie
I am pursued to the bitter end.
After living under a faint star of misfortune
unaware of the way things are,
one day the hackneyed plot says
that I suddenly start to be pursued
in the old projector, today again,
that never wearies but just keeps turning . . .

Now it's raining on the screen
and there I am from behind, getting drenched,
ceaselessly pursued . . .
What crime did I commit?
On the silent screen
faint foreign words flash like a code;
why did I become a criminal?

Please open it and look again.
Ever between these pages
crawl only the ghosts of those who starved to death.
In every village darkened by the hand-grease of daily use
the habits that still live
clean the blackened chimneys of the lamps.
The children drowned in the ocean of their dreaming,
in a yellowed clapping of their hands.
Their ghosts rise and clamor
Give me tasty candies
Give me thrilling candlelight,
then they form a wave that at once collapses.
Several medals left by someone long ago rust away.
Between these pages, it is always

Saddened by the sun
and blue of the sky

the leper ate a child
at moonrise by the barley fields

and through the night cried out
his sorrow red as a flower.