My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
thistles are flowering,
looking spiky and dangerous,
yet soft and comely
two streams join:
one black and one tan --
the lighter moves on.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
deep brown river
drags many fields’ of soil
to the sea each day.
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
bees pace the
narrow blooms of wildflowers,
working like it's play.
The scent: copper-carpeted pine forest;
A stream rushes through: swirling, burbling;
Blue sky and snowcaps peek through the treetops.
In the distance, fishermen are trawling.
A young lady with flowing hair and gown
Passes gracefully through the thick woodlands.
Eyes move when she moves and stop when she stops,
Following her transit down the valley.
The mind shows not its usual chaos,
But is effortlessly anchored to her.
As if to a huge rising moon.
As if to blazing autumn hues.
NOTE: The late Tang Dynasty poet, Sikong Tu (a.k.a. Ssŭ-k‘ung T‘u,) wrote an ars poetica entitled Twenty-Four Styles of Poetry. It presents twenty-four poems that are each in a different tone, reflecting varied concepts from Taoist philosophy and aesthetics. Above is a translation of the sixteenth of the twenty-four poems.
the graveyard weeds
are blossoming in yellow
to garland the tombs.
