Classic poem of the day
And he is risen? Well, be it so. . . .
And still the pensive lands complain,
And dead men wait as long ago,
As if, much doubting, they would know
What they are ransomed from, before
They pass again their sheltering door.
I stand amid them in the rain,
While blusters vex the yew and vane;
And on the road the weary wain
Plods forward, laden heavily;
And toilers with their aches are fain
For endless rest—though risen is he.
Member poem of the day
Fate is a sword that swings by chance—
I wonder where my brothers have gone.
Wiping these tears that wet my sleeves,
I comb my hair like a silken lawn.
The earth is vulgar, vast, and wild,
But Heaven is far, like the distant dawn.
For who is spared from sickness in time?
I cannot see you though life slips on.
Original Chinese Poem
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