Out of a fired ship, which by no way
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,
Some men leap'd forth, and ever as they came
Near the foes' ships, did by their shot decay;
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,
They in the sea being burnt,
They in the burnt ship drown'd.
Hoeing farmer, as heat haze roils,
His flowing sweat waters the soil.
All those who know food on a plate
Should feel each grain comes of that toil.
NOTE: The title of this poem (悯农, or Mǐn Nóng) is often translated as “Toiling Farmers,” though “Compassion for Farmers” or “Pity Farmers” would be closer to the literal translation.
On the arid
desert's edge,
Stands a scrubby
shrubby hedge
That's always green
and never brown,
But it turns black
when Sun goes down.
We cast our spells by way of words --
Each sound, sacred. Its magic blurred
By mundane ways and untrained ears --
Failure to feel one's way to tears.
So, we're lost upon silent seas
Even when one could hear with ease:
Because boundless is speech's spread,
And boundless, still, within one's head.
Some seek their way to the magic
By means that are truly tragic,
When all they really need to do
Is listen as it passes through.
There was an Old Man with a beard,
Who said, "It is just as I feared! --
Two Owls and a Hen,
Four Larks and a Wren,
Have all built their nests in my beard!"
NOTE: This poem no. 1 of Lear’s The Book of Nonsense.
No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail
Must lean away from such a gale,
Abandoning its straight intent,
Or else expose tough ligament
And tender flesh to what before
Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.
Forceless upon our backs there fall
Infrequent flakes hexagonal,
Devised in many a curious style
To charm our safety for a while,
Where close to earth like mice we go
Under the horizontal snow.
A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear --
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life, what is it but a dream?
A road lined with burnt out junkers,
And garbage fires 'round which hunker
Cold souls sitting in drizzling rain --
That rain, that rain, their eternal bane.
Blue skies are a distant memory --
Except for in every reverie
That denies claustrophobic skies
The main villain role - e'er reprised.
Where's our long-lost hero, the sun?
Have stout clouds got him on the run?
Or maybe our hero 's bleeding out;
Its feeble showing leaves room for doubt.
Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.
Much Madness is divinest Sense --
To a discerning Eye --
Much Sense -- the starkest Madness --
'Tis the Majority
In this, as all, prevail --
Assent -- and you are sane --
Demur -- you're straightway dangerous --
And handled with a Chain --
Tiger Riding for Beginners 