Lovers, like wrestlers, when they do not lay
Their Hold below the Girdle, use Fair Play.

Three feet of mud in this narrow alley:
no one comes to visit me, hidden in seclusion.
Whistling at the window, the wind keeps me from sleep;
dampening the stove, raindrops make poverty even worse.
On country roads, wild flowers greet the traveler,
on bridges spanning the river, willows see him off.
For now, I must lead this primitive life
and rest this exiled body as best I can.

Suddenly, warm weather, I change to lighter clothes.
Quietly, I stroll along the green banks.
The birds chirp, as if they had a complaint;
the flowers look saddened, as if lamenting some loss.
I remember the older generations for their integrity,
and stand in awe of the young for their talents.
I feel a natural love for the pleasures of the country:
I've never purposely hidden from the world of reputation!

Reflections in the river: trembling spring trees.
High-water marks: engraved on the evening sand.
Green reeds, three feet of rainwater;
red hibiscus, a hedgeful of blossoms.
Leave your country, and you still think of your country.
Return home, and you go on dreaming of home!
I have never had a desire for rank and salary:
why do I have to be so far from the capital?

There was no reason to expect sadness
to visit my little studio.
May I ask, who escorted sadness here,
who introduced it?
But no, it's just that the old year
never took its sadness away —
it's not that the new year
brought in a new supply.

Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,
Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,
Yet at the last, with his masters around him,
He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last, though the Kafirs had maimed him,
Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver,
Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him,
He called upon Allah, and died a Believer!

There were three friends that buried the fourth,
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes,
And they went south and east and north —
The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead —
The strong man fights but the sick man dies —
" And would he were here with us now, " they said,
" The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes. "

The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,
When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,
And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away;
And he turned from his meal in the villager's close,
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.

Then we brought the lances down — then the trumpets blew —
When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.
Ridin' — ridin' — ridin' two an' two!
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a!
All the way to Kandahar,
Ridin' two an' two.

After the rain, the vegetables from your garden
are wonderful to behold!
But suddenly I hear that you are sick,
lying in your hidden studio.
It must be that you really have no " method for calming the mind " :
whatever made you cut those sunflowers from their stems?