Wind of the desert, softly blow
Across the cañon shining wide.
Lightly among the temples go
That rise in towers of pride.
Soft, lest they float away
Out in the azure day!

At the end of a crazy-moon night
the love of God rose.
I said, “It's me, Lalla.”

The Beloved woke. We became That,
and the lake is crystal-clear.

I spent the entire day in official details;
And it almost pulled me down like the others:
I felt that tiny insane voluptuousness,
Getting this done, finally finishing that.

I don't care how God-damn smart
these guys are:     I'm bored.

Too young to have learned what sorrow means,
Attired for spring, she climbs to her high chamber. . . .
The new green of the street-willows is wounding her heart -
Just for a title she sent him to war.

Now it comes, mid June on West Lake,
Four seasons, the vista ever unique.
Lotus leaves to the horizon, boundless green,
Sun glow on lotus buds, peerless red.

The soft asphaltum in the sun;
Betrays a tendency to run;
Whereas the dog that takes his way
Across its course concludes to stay.

At Alperne vil speile sig i Beltet -
Har Sagnet sagt — det skeer saasnart paa Kysten
Med Schweitserhaand vi reise Frihedsteltet.

Here where this graveyard comes to a sudden end
you lie forgotten beside a crumbling wall,
yet sometimes at night a nova calls you friend,
and the moon itself recalls your rise and fall.

Although I've studied poetry for thirty years
I try to keep my mouth shut and avoid reputation.
Now who is this nosy gentleman talking about my poetry
Like Yang Ching-chih
Who spoke of Hsiang Ssu everywhere he went.