No More Learning

IX

Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.


X

Laugh--it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.


XI

Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.


XII

As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.


XIII

Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals--
How am I worthy?


XIV

Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?


XV

Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.


XVI

Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.


XVII

Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves--
But before they turn?
XVIII

Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?


XIX

Love is a game--yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.


XX

When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!


XXI

Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.


XXII

A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?


XXIII

Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?


XXIV

Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That day was happy.




THE SWANS


The swans float and float
Along the moat
Around the Bishop's garden,
And the white clouds push
Across a blue sky
With edges that seem to draw in and harden.

Two slim men of white bronze
Beat each with a hammer on the end of a rod
The hours of God.
Striking a bell,
They do it well.