Rose kissed me to-day.
— Will she kiss me to-morrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me to-day
But the pleasure gives way
— To a savor of sorrow; —
Rose kissed me to-day, —
— Will she kiss me to-morrow?

I come more softly than a bird,
And lovely as a flower;
I sometimes last from year to year
And sometimes but an hour.
I stop the swiftest railroad train
Or break the stoutest tree.
And yet I am afraid of fire
And children play with me.

Li Hsü of Ch'ien-chou is an old friend of mine.
Once, when you were drunk, you insulted him to his face!
Two officials who were on the scene told me what happened,
and I could only hang my head, and feel ashamed inside.

The false words of the Buddhists and Taoists
are a pack of lies!
Anyone who comprehends this truth
is a real Confucian scholar.
Stupid people are manipulated by other stupid people:
they make offerings of thousands in cash,
and don't get one iota of benefit!

32.
He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty;
And he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.

29. Who hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who hath redness of eyes?
30. They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.
31. Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright.
32. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.
33. Thine eyes shall behold strange women, and thine heart shall utter perverse things.

My Metaphors are but dull Tacklings tag'd
— — With ragged Non-Sense. Can such draw to thee
My stund affections all with Cinders clag'd,
— — If thy bright beaming headship touch not mee?
— — If that thy headship shines not in mine eyes,
— — My heart will fuddled ly with worldly toyes.

The wind sighs in the reeds — autumn on the rustic shore.
His raincoat covered with raindrops, he returns alone in his boat.
Do not hate this place for its wind and its waves:
there are wind and waves everywhere, and everywhere, sadness.

Pines and cedars, a hundred feet of green, clinging to the earth.
The hermit's robe is ragged, his hair, spotted with grey.
The desolate mountain is silent — no human voices here!
Among the wolves and tigers, he reads the Tao te ching.

The mountain pavilion is silent — few people visit me here.
The bramble gate is patched with mud, my clothes are patched with
leaves.
I never rise from my bamboo bench — my hair is white as snow;
I no longer have a mind to ask for the secret of Zen.