A moon gate in my wall: собрание стихотворений

I cast a rock into the well
And stood to listen how it fell.
How it went shooting through the deep.
Where frogs and water-serpents creep.
And as it reached the bottom black
I heard it give a sullen whack
And saw the bubbles at the top
And circles w’here 1 let it drop.
And now — I see the sky and sun
And I regret what I have done
And wonder if the silent stone
Remembers, where it lies alone
Among the creatures of the slime,
Its happier and brighter time —
And if it longs to see above
The sun, which I deprived it of.

17 Apr. 1929

511. «Like colored glass is fair…»

Like colored glass is fair
when the porch is gray,
so all my days were
till you went away.
Like rainbows in the sky
following after rain,
so is the thought that I
may meet you yet again.
But, oh, the endless years
that I don't see your face
are cold and lonely years
in a lonely place.

6 Dec. 1929

512. «Oh, tender dawn above the sombre pond…»

Oh, tender dawn above the sombre pond,
where great, green drooping weeping willows crowd
to touch the sleeping water; and beyond —
the golden turrets of a rising cloud.

Oh, gentle wind, sweet scented breath that stirs

this silent waking water, — and the lace
of willows, and green saplings, and brown burrs
framing its face!

What can the heart within a human breast —

what can it do with that taut golden string
calling for all the agony and unrest
which make men sing?

Weep in such hours of ecstasy, oh heart!

Be silent, oh dark heart, — you cannot cool
your burning thirst from that deep, glittering pool,
or reach that sky light where the willows part!

Nothing there is that you can do. Lie low,

hide on the soft black earth, in the wet grass,
breathe not when this mild wind begins to blow,
hear not, nor watch how the green ripples go,
that, seeing you — helpless and suffering so —
those stirring hours take pity on you and pass!

Shanghai, [Sept. 1934]

513. Dawn

So dawn creeps to dark waters, and so hope
to still, sick, sombre hearts, that vainly grope
throughout the night, not knowing that a day
is near, to end their sorrow and dismay.

How bright the ripples in the sudden glare

of morning, and the waking trees how fair!
Even my wingless heart can so forget
that it alone has not been lighter yet…

Shanghai, [Sept. 1934]

514. «If I had but a little common sense…»