Ah, bird singing late in the gloam
While the evening shadow thickens,
And the dizzy bat-wings roam,
And the faint starlight quickens;

And her bud eve's primrose bares
Before night's cold fingers come:
Thine are such lonely airs,
Bird singing late in the gloam!

There were not many at that lonely place,
Where two scourged hills met in a little plain.
The wind cried loud in gusts, then low again.
Three pines strained darkly, runners in a race
Unseen by any. Toward the further woods
A dim harsh noise of voices rose and ceased.
-- We were most silent in those solitudes --
Then, sudden as a flame, the black-robed priest,

The clotted earth piled roughly up about
The hacked red oblong of the new-made thing,
Short words in swordlike Latin -- and a rout
Of dreams most impotent, unwearying.
Then, like a blind door shut on a carouse,
The terrible bareness of the soul's last house.

Laugh, and the world laughs with you:
Weep, and you weep alone;
    For the sad old earth
    Must borrow its mirth,
It has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
    The echoes bound
    To a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
    They want full measure
    Of all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
    There are none to decline
    Your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by;
    Succeed and give,
    And it helps you live,
B...

How still it is here in the woods. The trees
Stand motionless, as if they did not dare
To stir, lest it should break the spell. The air
Hangs quiet as spaces in a marble frieze.
Even this little brook, that runs at ease,
Whispering and gurgling in its knotted bed,
Seems but to deepen with its curling thread
Of sound the shadowy sun-pierced silences.

Sometimes a hawk screams or a woodpecker
Startles the stillness from its fixèd mood
With his loud careless tap. Sometimes I hear
The dreamy white-throat from some far off tree
Pipe slowly on the listening solitude
His five pure notes succeeding pensively.

Lonely her fate was,
Environed from sight
In the house where the gate was
Past finding at night.
None there to share it,
No one to tell:
Long she'd to bear it,
And bore it well.

Elsewhere just so she
Spent many a day;
Wishing to go she
Continued to stay.
And people without
Basked warm in the air,
But none sought her out,
Or knew she was there.
Even birthdays were passed so,
Sunny and shady:
Years did it last so
For this sad lady.
Never declaring it,
No one to tell,
Still she kept bearing it -
Bore it well.

The days grew chillier,
And then she went
To a city, familiar
In years forespent,
When she walked gaily
Far to and fro,
But now, moving frailly,
Could nowhere go.
The...

        Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
    Weep, and you weep alone;
        For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
    But has trouble enough of its own.
        Sing, and the hills will answer;
    Sigh, it is lost on the air;
        The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
    But shrink from voicing care.

        Rejoice, and men will seek you;
    Grieve, and they turn and go;
        They want full measure of all your pleasure,
    But they do not need your woe.
        Be glad, and your friends are many;
    Be sad, and you lose them all;
        There are none to decline your nectar'd wine,
    But alone you must drink life's gall.

        Feast, and your halls are crowded;
    Fast, and the world goes by.
        Succeed...

Why do ye call the poet lonely,
Because he dreams in lonely places?
He is not desolate, but only
Sees, where ye cannot, hidden faces.

Left in the world alone,
Where nothing seems my own,
And everything is weariness to me,
'T is a life without an end,
'T is a world without a friend,
And everything is sorrowful I see.

There's the crow upon the stack,
And other birds all black,
While bleak November's frowning wearily;
And the black cloud's dropping rain,
Till the floods hide half the plain,
And everything is dreariness to me.

The sun shines wan and pale,
Chill blows the northern gale,
And odd leaves shake and quiver on the tree,
While I am left alone,
Chilled as a mossy stone,
And all the world is frowning over me.

When, with all the loved around thee,
    Still thy heart says, "I am lonely,"
It is well; the truth hath found thee:
    Rest is with the Father only.

This night,
Long like the drooping feathers
Of the pheasant,
The chain of mountains,
Shall I sleep alone?

From the Japanese of Kaik-no Motto-no Hitomaro (seventh and eighth centuries).

Do not, O do not use me
As you have used others.
Better you did refuse me:
You have refused others.
Better, far better hope to banish
A small child than, grown old,
Hope should decay, his vigour vanish,
And I be left alone and
Cold, cold.

Ah, use no guile nor cunning
If you should even yet love me.
Hark, Time with Love is running,
Death cloud-like floats above me.
Love me with such simplicity
As children, frankly bold,
Do love with; oh, never pity me,
Though I be left alone and
Cold, cold.

So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders,
May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.

Alone, alone! - the night is very silent,
    Voiceless the stars are, and the pallid moon
Through the unknown sends down no tone, no utt'rance
    To break the hush of midnight's solemn noon!
I stretch my arms toward the unanswering heavens,
    'Tis empty space, - no form, no shape is here!
I call, - no answer to my cry is given,
    Powerless my voice falls on Night's leaden ear!

Alone, alone! - I thought the dead were near me, -
    The holy dead.    E'en now, methought I heard
Low tones whose music long ago did cheer me,
    That shadowy hands the parting branches stirred
'Twas but the night wind's mournful sigh above me, -
    'Twas but the lonely streamlet's grieving tone,
No voice comes back from those who once did love me, -
    No white hand beckons...

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield shade,
In winter, fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years, slide soft away
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mixed; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

Despairless! Hopeless! Quietly I wait
On these unpeopled tracks the happy close
Of Day, whose advent rang with noise elate,
Whose later stage was quick with mirthful shows
And clasping loves, with hate and hearty blows,
And dreams of coming gifts withheld by Fate
From morrow unto morrow, till her great
Dread eyes 'gan tell of other gifts than those,
And her advancing wings gloomed like a pall;
Her speech foretelling joy became a dirge
As piteous as pitiless; and all
My company had passed beyond the verge
And lost me ere Fate raised her blinding wings....
Hark! through the dusk a bird "at heaven's gate sings."

(What the Mendicant Said)


    The moon's a monk, unmated,
    Who walks his cell, the sky.
    His strength is that of heaven-vowed men
    Who all life's flames defy.

    They turn to stars or shadows,
    They go like snow or dew -
    Leaving behind no sorrow -
    Only the arching blue.

Oh ye kindly nymphs, who dwell 'mongst the rocks and the thickets,

Grant unto each whatsoe'er he may in silence desire!
Comfort impart to the mourner, and give to the doubter instruction,

And let the lover rejoice, finding the bliss that he craves.
For from the gods ye received what they ever denied unto mortals,

Power to comfort and aid all who in you may confide.

The house is silent, it is late at night, I am alone.
        From the balcony I can hear the Isar moan,
        Can see the white
Rift of the river eerily, between the pines, under a sky of stone.

Some fireflies drift through the middle air Tinily.
        I wonder where
Ends this darkness that annihilates me.