Written by
Du Fu |
Late years approach drag out
Return home little happy interest
Darling son not leave knee
Fear I again but go
Remember past very pursue cool
Therefore round pool beside tree
Whistling north wind strong
Think of things trouble hundred worry
Rely know grain millet harvest
Already perceive grain press pour
Now enough pour and drink
Short time use comfort late in life I'm late in years, and only marking time,
Returning home, I find but little joy.
My darling son now will not leave my knee,
He's scared that I will go away again.
I remember when we used to seek the coolth,
And wound between the trees beside the pool.
The soughing and sighing of the north wind's strong,
I'm thinking of a hundred different worries.
At least I know the millet harvest's good,
Already I hear the grain press trickle.
For now I have enough to pour and drink,
I use it to get comfort near the end.
|
Written by
Du Fu |
Flock chickens now disorder call
Guests arrive chicken fight
Drive chickens on tree
Begin listen knock wicker tree
Elders four five people
Ask me long far travel
Hand in each have carry
Pour jug cloudy combine clear
Bitter decline wine taste thin
Millet field no person farm
Soldier transform already no rest
Children furthest east campaigning
Ask for elders sing
Difficult ashamed deep feeling
Song finish face heaven sigh
Everyone present cry freely The flock of chickens starts to call wildly,
As guests arrive, the chickens begin to fight.
I drive the chickens up into the tree,
And now I hear the knock on the wicker gate.
Four or five elders from the village,
Ask how long and far I have been travelling.
Each of them brings something in his hands,
We pour the clear and thick wine in together.
They apologise because it tastes so thin,
There's no-one left to tend the millet fields.
Conscription still continues without end,
The children are campaigning in the east.
I ask if I can sing a song for the elders,
The times so hard, I'm ashamed by these deep feelings.
I finish the song, look to heaven and sigh,
Everyone around is freely weeping.
|
Written by
Sarojini Naidu |
O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will ease my bitter pain?
He went to seek a millet-grain
In the rich farmer's granary shed;
They caught him in a baited snare,
And slew my lover unaware:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little deer, why dost thou moan,
Hid in thy forest-bower alone?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah! who will quiet my lament?
At fall of eventide he went
To drink beside the river-head;
A waiting hunter threw his dart,
And struck my lover through the heart.
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
O little bride, why dost thou weep
With all the happy world asleep?
Alas! alas! my lord is dead!
Ah, who will stay these hungry tears,
Or still the want of famished years,
And crown with love my marriage-bed?
My soul burns with the quenchless fire
That lit my lover's funeral pyre:
Alas! alas! my lord is dead.
|
Written by
Czeslaw Milosz |
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty,
Blind force with accomplished shape.
Here is the valley of shallow Polish rivers.
And an immense bridge
Going into white fog.
Here is a broken city,
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.
What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.
They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.
|
Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
I
This is the sorrowful story
Told when the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
Holding their neighbours' tails: --
"Our fathers lived in the forest,
Foolish people were they,
They went down to the cornland
To teach the farmers to play.
"Our fathers frisked in the millet,
Our fathers skipped in the wheat,
Our fathers hung from the branches,
Our fathers danced in the street.
"Then came the terrible farmers,
Nothing of play they knew,
Only.
.
.
they caught our fathers
And set them to labour too!
"Set them to work in the cornland
With ploughs and sickles and flails,
Put them in mud-walled prisons
And -- cut off their beautiful tails!
"Now, we can watch our fathers,
Sullen and bowed and old,
Stooping over the millet,
Sharing the silly mould,
"Driving a foolish furrow,
Mending a muddy yoke,
Sleeping in mud-walled prisons,
Steeping their food in smoke.
"We may not speak to our fathers,
For if the farmers knew
They would come up to the forest
And set us to labour too.
"
This is the horrible story
Told as the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
Holding their kinsmen's tails.
II
'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready,
That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below;
He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather,
An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.
Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely,
An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: --
"Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you --
Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!" an' the Donkey went aboard.
But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin',
An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air;
An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in batches,
Till Noah said: -- "There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!"
For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation --
The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales;
An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy
The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails.
The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: --
"To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?"
An' the Divil gave for answer: -- "Evict me if you can, sir,
For I came in wid the Donkey -- on Your Honour's invitation.
"
|
Written by
Du Fu |
Yellow river north bank sea west army
Hammer drum sound bell heaven under hear
Iron horse great cry not know number
Hu people tall nosed move great numbers
Yellow river west bank be my Shu
Wish must supply home without millet
Wish expel common people respect king
Equal one chariot book abandon gold jade On the north bank of the Yellow River, west of the sea, is an army,
Hammered drums and sounded bells are heard beneath the sky.
The armoured horses cry out loud, I cannot tell their number,
The high-nosed tribe of Hu are moving in great numbers.
On the western bank of the Yellow River lies my own Sichuan,
I yearn to do my duty and provide for my home, without millet.
I wish I could expel the horde in honour of my king,
And for one book or chariot I'd abandon gold and jade.
|
Written by
Du Fu |
Continuous wind long rain autumn numerous and confused
Four seas eight wastes together one cloud
Go horse come ox no longer distinguish
Muddy Jing clear Wei how now distinguish
Grain head grow ear millet ear black
Farmer field wife without news
City in ten litres rice exchange quilt silk
Agree better consider both mutual worth Ceaseless wind and lengthy rain swirl together this autumn,
The four seas and eight deserts are covered by one cloud.
A horse going, an ox coming, cannot be distinguished,
How now can the muddy Jing and clear Wei be told apart?
The standing grain begins to sprout, the millet's ears turn black,
Farmers and the farmers' wives have no hopeful news.
In the city, a bucket of rice can cost a silken quilt,
And both the buyer and seller have to agree the bargain is fair.
|
Written by
Adela Florence Cory Nicolson |
A little breeze blew over the sea,
And it came from far away,
Across the fields of millet and rice,
All warm with sunshine and sweet with spice,
It lifted his curls and kissed him thrice,
As upon the deck he lay.
It said, "Oh, idle upon the sea,
Awake and with sleep have done,
Haul up the widest sail of the prow,
And come with me to the rice fields now,
She longs, oh, how can I tell you how,
To show you your first-born son!"
|
Written by
Du Fu |
Life not mutual see
Act like Shen and Shang
Today evening again which evening
Share this candle light
Young and vigorous able how long
Temple hair each already grey
Enquire old partly be ghosts
Exclaim excited in intestines
Didn't know twenty years
Again at your hall
Past part you not married
Boys girls suddenly form a line
Happy and contented respect father friend
Ask I come what direction
Question answer be not finish
Boys girls spread out alcohol
Night rain cut spring chives
New cooked rice mix golden millet
Host say meet hard
One cup repeat ten cups
Ten cups also not drunk
Feel your friendship long
Tomorrow separate mountain mountain
Human affairs two boundless and indistinct We've lived our lives and have not seen each other,
We've been just like the stars of Shen and Shang.
Oh what an evening is this evening now,
Together in the light of this one lamp?
Young and vigorous for so short a time,
Already now we both have greying temples.
We ask of old friends, half of them now dead,
Your exclamation stirs up my own heart.
We did not know it would be twenty years,
Before we met again inside your hall.
When we parted then, you were unmarried,
Suddenly boys and girls come in a row.
Happy and content, they respect their father's friend,
Asking me from which direction I come.
And even before the question has been answered,
The boys and girls have gone to fetch the wine.
In the rainy night, they cut spring chives,
And mix the fresh cooked rice with golden millet.
My host says it's been hard for us to meet,
One draught's repeated, now becomes ten cups.
After ten cups, still I am not drunk,
It's your lasting friendship which is moving.
Tomorrow we'll be sundered by the hills,
Just two in a boundless world of human affairs.
|
Written by
Algernon Charles Swinburne |
Wind and sea and cloud and cloud-forsaking
Mirth of moonlight where the storm leaves free
Heaven awhile, for all the wrath of waking
Wind and sea.
Bright with glad mad rapture, fierce with glee,
Laughs the moon, borne on past cloud's o'ertaking
Fast, it seems, as wind or sail can flee.
One blown sail beneath her, hardly making
Forth, wild-winged for harbourage yet to be,
Strives and leaps and pants beneath the breaking
Wind and sea.
|