Another time, another year
The bluebells in the woods
have raised their heads to thee
Who in the shadows of the past
the garth of Arundel didst tread.
The daffodils in gold
have spread a mat for thee
Who in the mists of days of old
the Surrey fields didst oft frequent.
The roses red have yet
their beauty to bestow
‘pon thee who in the present day
much happiness shouldst know.
Yet now for Yu a year has passed
Under the bridge of life to flow
Into the future yet unknown
Silently o’er pebble and stone
Hidden in reeds on sandy shore
I muse whereon her shadow ‘s cast.
施氏食狮史
首被平原的管家(Google-Coco)
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If you had ever thought that She sells sea-shells on the sea-shore was difficult – consider a puzzle in the style of Carroll –
Chinese is already confusing enough with all of its tones, characters, markers and lack of articles, inflections and tenses, but this poem really shows just how difficult Chinese is especially for the native Mandarin.
Continue readingAnother year has passed us by
And still we hear the song
As tulips blossom in the tree
And wild sparrows fly a-free.
A thought springs up into the night –
A cranial response to the plight –
Appraising what we sensed must be
April has come and now must we
Advert to a remembrance day
Apply ourselves to the affray
Appropriate to ourselves a pen
And write, again, two more than ten.
Der Berg ertönte den Nebel nach
Im Ferne sah der Berg die Blitze,
Er hört den Donner in den dunklen Nebeln
Die Sonne hoch im Himmel schien
Das Erde flieht, bewegt bei Regen
Und der Berg ertönte den Nebel nach,
Was willst du, Nebel mein?
Der Nebel noch immer näher kommt:
In meinem Bauch deine Gipfel stören
In den dunklen Nebel die Blitze schossen
Aus tiefer Not die Felsen krächzten
Die Sonne hört, die Mond nimmt ab
Und Donner grollte in dem Staub
Am Morgen kommt der Tag zurück
Die Dämmerung weicht dem Tag
Wo ist der Gipfel, der erhob sich hoch?
In meinem Bach, erwiderte das Feld
Die Staub des Berges floss zum Meer
Mit Hilfe des Regens Heer.
Das Wasser fragte nach dem Gipfel;
Steht noch oben der Berg über den Wipfeln?
In the middle of the night
As the stars were burning bright
And the owl in midst of flight
Did catch the sound and the sight
Of those who their tent did pight,
In the middle of the bight.
This at first did seem not right
But the ropes and stays kept tight
As could be seen from that height
Where the soaring of the kite
In the middle of the light
Would cause, on earth, to incite
In creatures small all their might
To turn at once into fright
When cognisant of their plight.
In the middle of the site
Thus began the strangest rite
Which the creatures did excite
When faced by this did it quite
Turn their visage pallid white.
In the midst I now indite,
Though this ode oft seem trite
(It is worth naught but a mite),
Yet to speak without respite
My words all placed are aright:
In the middle of the eight
Where the circles do invite
One to be seen, but in spite,
Three in hex not on its right
Thus it seems to implicate
In the meaning of this date.
Last night the moon, in all her fullness veiled,
Hung in the steel blue sky of winter’s night
Fell from her true face a nebulous shroud
Silently slipping o’er the starry sight.
Hoots of owl and shrieks of bat from below
Made competition, just as feline eyes,
Which cared not for the silver mournful glow,
With stealth stalked o’er the verdant grassy rise.
Such unfeeling works of poor nature’s lines
Neither see nor comprehend such beauty.
The moon rides high, and proudly shines.
She gives her light and asks no tax or fee.
For she receives from a greater sphere
In whose burning flame she pales her splendour
Fearing not to hide from mortal’s gaze and view.
And I, what would I have compared you to?
If it were not to the well-shrouded moon,
Should that be not less than I ought to say?
But were I to say, to the very same,
Would that not be then more than you should know?
Therefore, let me stand as did good Queen Bess,
And leave the question just as: Answerless.
Spring, now dressed in all her feral charm, has woken
daffodils, which lay hid’n in the sodden earth, to
repose upon the green velour of mossy banks
amid bluebells, who hang their pretty heads for to
woo the busy bees whose flight through the perfumed air
delivers the payload of their pollened legs to
each corolla, which, in winning her attention
enticed the bee with nectar sweet her work to do.
Long may this work go on, though spring it is too short,
yet when summer comes, and then the harvest time, will
another winter yield again to feral charm?
Glad may she now be on her dodecanal day!