English

A sad confession from the heart of man
It is, that War, dark hateful War, must be;
That ever thus, e'en since the world began,
Has been on earth the dire necessity!
Behold, he says, the truth on History's page,
Written in blood upon her lengthening scroll;
The warrior's wreaths still green from age to age,
And warlike glory still man's highest goal.
But deeper look, O man, into thy heart,
And Peace, a mightier need thou there shalt see;
As yet thou know'st thy nature but in part,
What thou hast been, but not what thou shalt be!

I come the rushing wind that shook the place
Where those once sat who spake with tongues of fire
O'er thee to shed the freely given grace
And bid them speak while I thy verse inspire
The world shall hear and know that thou art sent
To preach glad tidings to the needy poor
And witness that by me the power is lent
That wakes the dead, the halt and lame can cure
Thy words shall breathe refreshment to the mind
That long has borne the heavy yoke of pain
For thou art to the will of Him who lives resigned

Each naked branch, the yellow leaf or brown,
The rugged rock, and death-deformed plain
Lies white beneath the winter's feathery down,
Nor doth a spot unsightly now remain;
On sheltering roof, on man himself it falls;
But him no robe, not spotless snow makes clean;
For 'neath his corse-like spirit ever calls,
That on it too may fall the heavenly screen;
But all in vain, its guilt can never hide
From the quick spirit's heart-deep searching eye,
There barren plains, and caverns yawning wide
Must e'er lay naked to the passer by;

All Nature dies! wide over hill and plain,
The forests brown and withered meet the eye;
The flowers are gone, the birds will not remain,
The grass, so green of late, is pale and dry.
But what is Nature's death, though, far and wide
Thou see'st the emblems of her sure decay,
To Man's; to whom, in soul, thou art allied;
And who but now, unnoticed, passed away!
Daily he passes; in the lowly shed,
In the high palace, 'neath the open sky;
No world-wide symbols mark that He is dead,
No gorgeous splendor draws thy wondering eye;

I will not call it Spring for me
Till every leaf I've seen,
And every springing blade of grass,
Has its last touch of green;
Till every blossom I can count,
Upon the budding bough;
Then will I call it spring for me,
I cannot see it now.

I will not call the Summer come,
Till every blade shall fall
Beneath the mower's swinging scythe,
The low grass and the tall;
Till where each red and white bud stood,
Hangs fruit for autumn's hand;
But yet I cannot say 'tis here,
And I will waiting stand.

Wouldst thou behold my features cleanse thy heart
Wash out the stains thy will impresses there
And as the clay-stamped images depart
Thou shalt behold my face how wondrous fair
How changed from that thine outward eye must see
It wears no form its searching glance can know
From flesh and blood it now has wrought it free
And in the spirit learns from Christ to grow
That which thou sowest is not that which springs
From the dead grain thou givest to the earth
Each moment's toil an added lustre brings

Leaving homeland, parted from kin, banished to a strange place,
I wonder my heart feels so little anguish and pain.
Consulting Chuang Tzu, I find where I belong:
surely my home is there in Not-Even-Anything land.

Since Amaro died I cannot sleep at night;
if I do, I meet him in dreams and tears come coursing down.
Last summer he was over three feet tall;
this year he would have been seven years old.
He was diligent and wanted to know how to be a good son,
read his books and recited by heart the “Poem on the Capital.”
Medicine stayed the bitter pain, but only for ten days;
then the wind took his wandering soul off to the Nine Springs.
Since then, I hate the gods and buddhas;
better if they had never made heaven and earth!

Forgotten by the one
I was so sure
would come asking about me—
since then all I do
is wonder if I even exist

In what house, the jade flute that sends these dark notes drifting,
scattering on the spring wind that fills Lo-yang?
Tonight if we should hear the willow-breaking song,
who could help but long for the gardens of home?