Golden, as the sun rising in the east,
Another day to be filled with festive feast
Year added unto year, it behoveth me to say,
Like Venus in her orb and triumphal array
Enhancing to kith and kindred all
Every service and every loving call.
Did ere such kindness rest?
Were any mother ‘ere so blest?
As thine, and thou, whose blessed memory
Ringeth out o’er years gone by,
Delighting all who in her shadow rest
So that she shall be forever blest.

In days such as these
Some stress (if you please!)
Always abounding in bliss.
But I know what is
Enough of their ill
Lovely coffee will give a us thrill

Let not the winter’s ragged hand deface
In thee the hope of warmer days
For see proud-pied April doth efface
The harshest work of winter’s cold gaze,
So fields and beds, once bare on earth,
Bring forth, as if from stone, their verdure
Which as with great contended mirth
Doth leap and laugh as winter’s ardour
Gives way to spring wherein the birds shall sing
And blossom fling their beauties o’er the clades
Of trees in green of every hue, which ring
In silence throughout the lustrous glades.
So at the end of thy seven by seven be still
And accept this verse the expression of my good will

竹危险 (Zhú wéixiǎn/In peril of bamboo)
首被平原的管家

<sub><sup>Translation:
Small ideas, but great,
And dangerous result,
Young green bamboo shoots grow,
Twisting, they strangle the heart.
By the farmer of the great open field.

Translation engines and native speakers may offer a different set of words.</sup></sub>

How like a winter hath thine absence been
From one source o’er the fleeting years!
What freezings felt, what dark days seen
Whilst old D’cember a white sheet wears.
Now summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
As thou doth enter another anniversarial day.
The birds do sing, and with so loud a cheer,
That leaves once pale, turn green for thou art near

On KEH writing cards

How so like a winter hath thy mood been
For thee, the pleasure of the fleeting ink!
What freezings hast thou felt, what dark days seen!
What old December’s bareness every where!
And yet this time of writing was summer’s time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the time,
Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem’d to be
But hope of orphans and unfather’d fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou in mood, the very birds are mute;
Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.