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A darting fear—a pomp—a tear—
A waking on a morn
To find that what one waked for,
Inhales the different dawn.

A cook adorned with paper cap,
Or waiter with a tray,
May be a worthy kind of chap
In his way,
But when we want one for Recorder,
Then, Mr. Walton, take our order.

A cuckoo sings
to me, to the mountain,
to me, to the mountain.


Translated by Robert Hass

a cuckoo cries
and through a thicket of bamboo
the late moon shines

Dangerous effects of seeing onesself in a crooked glass.

A maiden cried, ' Alas ! .
With horror I'll expire,
Unless you bring me
That true glass
I bought of McIntyre.'

With much ado you fail to tell
The requisites for writing well;
But, what bad writing is, you quite
Have proved by every line you write.

COURAGE to ask of love neither sign nor token,
Wisdom to wait, silence and faith are better;
Fear, not alone lest the bond be some day broken,
But, that love, too desperately dear, become a fetter.

To meet, to know, to love--and then to part,
Is the sad tale of many a human heart.

They had a cook with them who stood alone For boiling chicken with a marrow-bone, Sharp flavouring powder and a spice for savour. He could distinguish London ale by flavour, And he could roast and boil and seethe and fry, Make good thick soup and bake a tasty pie... As for blancmange, he made it with the best.

With my wine-bottle, watching by river and lake
For a lady so tiny as to dance on my palm,
I awake, after dreaming ten years in Yangzhou,
Known as fickle, even in the Street of Blue Houses.