A sepal, petal, and a thorn
Upon a common summer's morn --
A flask of Dew -- A Bee or two --
A Breeze -- a caper in the trees --
And I'm a Rose!
“A sepal, petal, and a thorn” (19) by Emily Dickinson [w/ Audio]
Reply
Human affairs ever grind on --
Ancient or modern, shit repeats.
Mountains and rivers are changeless.
We climb to find our vista seats.
Cascade, fisher, and bridge -- subdued;
Air grows cold near dreamy, deep pools.
We read an old stone monument,
As tears glisten on cheeks like jewels.
Original Poem in Simplified Chinese:
人事有代谢, 往来成古今。
江山留胜迹, 我辈复登临。
水落鱼梁浅, 天寒梦泽深。
羊公碑字在, 读罢泪沾襟。
Note: This is poem #125 from 300 Tang Poems [唐诗三百首]
Matter comes in countless varieties,
And the forms are evershifting, as well.
Writers must dance the varied characters
To dulcet lines where elegance dwells,
Finding the right pace, cadence, and stresses
To blend like harmony in the five hues.
Though the tune fades in and out randomly
And the path is rugged and hazard-strewn,
Those who know the ways of change and order
Will find all falls into place with a flow.
But if one misses the proper pivots
It's like grabbing the tail to steer the nose --
Like yellow painted onto wet, black walls,
One's writing becomes muddy, and it stalls.
The original in Simplified Chinese:
其为物也多姿,其为体也屡迁。
其会意也尚巧,其遣言也贵妍。
暨音声之迭代,若五色之相宣。
虽逝止之无常,固崎锜而难便。
苟达变而识次,犹开流以纳泉。
如失机而后会,恒操末以续颠。
谬玄黄之粗叙,故浍涊而不鲜。
I shall go back again to the bleak shore
And build a little shanty on the sand,
In such a way that the extremest band
Of brittle seaweed will escape my door
But by a yard or two; and nevermore
Shall I return to take you by the hand;
I shall be gone to what I understand,
And happier than I ever was before.
The love that stood a moment in your eyes,
The words that lay a moment on your tongue,
Are one with all that in a moment dies,
A little under-said and over-sung.
But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies
Unchanged from what they were when I was young.
I have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
It is autumn; not without,
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves
Comes no murmur from the mill.