Who knows this or that?
Hark in the wall to the rat:
Since the world was, he has gnawed;
Of his wisdom, of his fraud
What dost thou know?
In the wretched little beast
Is life and heart,
Child and parent,
Not without relation
To fruitful field and sun and moon.
What art thou? His wicked eye
Is cruel to thy cruelty.
The Lion, the Lion, he dwells in the Waste,
He has a big head and a very small waist;
But his shoulders are stark, and his jaws they are grim,
And a good little child will not play with him.
Let me introduce the Common Hoopoe:
It can raise its crown when it wants to.
With me, it didn't (as you may have guessed;)
I suppose it was just unimpressed.
Let me give you a Fire-Bellied Toad fun fact:
They're party in the front, camo in the back.
With safety vest wrong side up on this toad,
You'll often find them squashed on a road.
Wonder—is not precisely Knowing
And not precisely Knowing not—
A beautiful but bleak condition
He has not lived who has not felt—
Suspense—is his maturer Sister—
Whether Adult Delight is Pain
Or of itself a new misgiving—
This is the Gnat that mangles men—
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone -
Man has created death.
Last night chirps resounded in the cold,
Through witching hour no sleep occurred.
I rose and slowly walked, alone.
Moonlight window glow, but no one stirred.
I've grayed in service and search of fame.
On hills, back home, the pines have grown old.
That's the story I'd let my lute tell,
If a string weren't broken &
there was someone to be told.
She's slender hands and pretty lips,
And seafoam and rosemary.
Her ears are pointed at the tips,
She stayed so long in Fairy.
Towards noon fleecy clouds waft in the gentle breeze;
I cross the stream amid flowers and willow trees.
What do the worldlings know about my hearty pleasure?
They'd only take me for a truant fond of leisure.
Note: This is the joint translation of Xu Yuanchong and Xu Ming found in the edition of Golden Treasury of Quatrains and Octaves on which they collaborated (i.e. China Publishing Group: Beijing (2008.))
We should not mind so small a flower
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again -
So spicy her Carnations nod -
So drunken, reel her Bees -
So silver, steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees -
That whoso sees this little flower
By faith, may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 